


(And I Know, That) I'll See You Again

by epherians



Series: altmal!eternal sunshine au [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Dialogue, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Inspired by Music, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Memory Loss, My First Work in This Fandom, Non-Linear Narrative, Permanent Injury, Post-Break Up, References to Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epherians/pseuds/epherians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It shouldn’t have had to end like this,” Altaïr confesses. “I just wish we had another go round.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Malik snorts. (Even the Malik of his mind does not pull any punches or soft comforts.) “If only we could. But I don’t suppose that is going to happen.”</p><p>After finding out Malik had the memories of their relationship erased, Altaïr returns the favor by undergoing the memory-erasing procedure himself. In going through the layers of their history—and beyond the moment it all went wrong—he realizes (too late) that he doesn’t want Malik to be forgotten.</p><p>Altaïr and Malik in the style of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(And I Know, That) I'll See You Again

**Author's Note:**

> This was a very fun AU to construct. There are references to both source materials everywhere and I hope you have fun finding them all.
> 
> The only game I studied for this story was AC1. For those of you unfamiliar with the movie, the key themes of this story are erasing your memories and exploring what it means to say goodbye to your past. Memories (for the most part) are explored in reverse-chronological sequence (beginning with the most recent events and concluding with the earliest ones), but the overall story still follows a chronological order of events.
> 
> Lastly: this story may not have gotten off the ground without the Animus.

“My name is Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad,” he speaks into the recorder. (Unsure, unwilling, before he regains his voice and the hurt he remembers.) “And I want to erase Malik Al-Sayf.”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

For Altaïr, the world had stopped in the days, or weeks, since the accident.

There is no meaning in remembering the date anymore, or what month and week it is, because every day is lived remembering the same bitter reality: he has a broken wrist, a broken heart, and a broken mind, and nothing is going to change that anytime soon.

Today, however, he comes home in a daze, catching the attention of Maria and Desmond sitting at his kitchen table. Their hushed discussion stops once they hear the door open, and they turn to Altaïr and wait for what he has to say.

Altaïr doesn’t recognize it’s his turn to speak, until the words tumble out of him like a spilled glass. With a hollow smile, he asks, “Guess who saw Malik today?”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

Altaïr visited Malik’s apartment even though the rejection was always the same.

He had every reason to be like this. Malik was bitter and full of contempt, for circumstances he did not want, suffering he could not control, and trust betrayed by the one person he gave his heart to. Attempts to speak to him were futile, for Malik only carried fury and grief from the death of his brother and the severing of his arm. Altaïr was turned and thrown away at every chance possible, but in all his stubbornness, he would not stop trying to reason with Malik—until something _forced_ him to stop.

It was a surprise in its own right to see Malik answer the door, but just as Altaïr was about to speak, the other man looked at him and asked, “Excuse me?”

It caught Altaïr off-guard to be spoken to so…foreignly. “Malik?” He asked again, as if his lover- his friend didn’t know who he was.

“I’m sorry,” The one-armed man shook his head, “do you need something?”

Altaïr thought it at first to be a cruel trick, or Malik’s newest way of being caustic, but what he didn’t expect was to hear the voice of someone hollering from inside.

“Malik! Something going on out there?" (Altaïr would wonder who that person was, but it was quickly forgotten by what was said next.)

Malik turned his head and called back, “It’s just someone who came here!”

“N-no, um,” Altaïr looked down, at an awkward loss for how to explain his presence. “Never mind, I should get going. Sorry for the trouble.” He hurriedly dashed down the steps, and out of instinct, put his hood up to cover his eyes.

Pain does not go away when you recover from trauma, Altaïr realized. Pain only comes back harder and more hurtful than before.

 

* * *

 

> _Dear Mr. Miles and Ms. Thorpe,_
> 
> _Malik Al-Sayf has had Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again._
> 
> _Thank You._

 

* * *

 

Altaïr doesn’t understand for a moment when he reads the card, but all of a sudden, he’s shaking. He looks over the card again and again, the words burning into his brain like the hole he burns back with his eyes. If he wills it hard enough, Malik’s name ( _Malik’s name!_ ) will disappear from the parchment and he won’t have to believe this inconceivable lie.

Maria watches from her seat at the table, but refuses to say anything. Desmond understands he has to break the silence, or else nothing will make anymore sense.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“Oh, I _wasn’t_ supposed to see this?” Altaïr snaps. “Well, that’s stupid! What did you want me to do, pretend like nothing happened so I could just decide on my own terms that I need to move on!?”

“Altaïr,” Desmond grabs his arm. “Look, you know it’s not like that.”

“When is it _ever?_ ” Altaïr shakes his arm out of Desmond’s grasp. “What else do you know about this?”

Desmond shakes his head. “I…I don’t know! They do some kind of thing, and it works. They’re under Abstergo, so I’m surprised we haven’t heard about them.”

“Amazing, really, how you thought this was a good idea,” Maria scoffs. “Now he knows, and now he’s remembering old wounds all over again.”

“Well _I think_ , Maria,” Altaïr interrupts as he storms over to her, “don’t _I deserve_  to know what happened to him? Of all people?”

“What are you going to do?” she asks. "This isn’t just some magic spell that can undo itself!”

“I’ll _find out_  for myself what’s going on,” he retorts. Examining the calling card for the name of its bearer— _Lacuna, Inc_.—determines his next engagement. “I’m gonna go and give them a piece of my mind.”

 

* * *

 

Finding Lacuna is little hassle when the clinic is located inside Abstergo’s ubiquitous building. Lacuna started out as a small company, credited with pioneering a safe process for memory erasure, but after being acquired by Abstergo Industries, their services became a boon and drew in a wider clientele. Altaïr understands this much, but what strikes him as odd is the sheer lack of information he _hasn’t_ learned that didn’t come from the brochure at the information desk.

He enters the clinic—white and pristine unlike the rest of the building—and approaches the young woman seated as receptionist.

“Welcome, how may I assist you?” She asks after ending a call.

“I’m Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad, here to see Dr. Vidic.”

The receptionist hands him a clipboard with a form. “Please fill this out.”

“But I only need to speak with him.”

“All visitors need to fill out the form, sir.”

So Altaïr takes a seat, and observes the clinic around him while he waits. The air is decidedly solemn, with the only sounds coming from the printer constantly printing and the receptionist constantly answering calls. (“I have an available slot for the twenty-third,” he briefly picks up.) Even the other visitors seated in the waiting room look more glum than the usual healthcare patient. After what seems like a long wait, Altaïr is cued in.

“Dr. Vidic will see you now, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Please follow me.”

 

* * *

 

“I apologize,” Dr. Warren Vidic says as he holds the card, “that you had to see this, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. It was not intended to be revealed to you this way.”

“What did you do to him?” Altaïr asks, still unwilling to believe anything. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“I can assure you that this is no trick. Mr. Al-Sayf wanted this procedure done,” The doctor answers, and the stunned reaction from Altaïr indicates his further attention.

“How can I trust you? How do you just ‘erase’ someone’s memory?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that—information on our patients is strictly confidential. But this was Mr. Al-Sayf’s own decision,” The doctor explains. “He was recovering from a serious accident, and by forgetting memories associated with it…” He glances at the young man—with a broken left wrist, sallow eyes, and a gaunt on display merely covered by his hood—sitting before him. “…the sooner he could heal, and move on from that past. Here at Lacuna, we provide that possibility.”

Altaïr feels like the wind has been knocked out of his chest, because he suddenly finds it hard to accept this reality, much less to breathe.

“So it’s done,” he understands with finality. “It’s…really been done.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad.”

 

* * *

 

Altaïr is at a loss for words. His thoughts go back to the way the doctor laid out the cold truth, to the unforgiving words spelled out on that card, and the way Malik looked at him with _indifference_ , when it had been the first time he saw him again in weeks. The events replay themselves over and over, and the pain never gets better.

He comes home in a worse state than before, at least as Desmond and Maria would notice. He avoids them and makes straight for his bedroom, where he shuts himself inside and buries his face and pillow in tears. Wounds reopened are no worse than wounds first inflicted.

Altaïr’s thoughts swirl in chaos for a good few hours. He hears his friends quarreling outside—over him, to no surprise—and his doubts only spiral even further. Maria presses that "he needs to grow up" while Desmond asserts "he can’t be left to suffer" and Altaïr can’t block out the noise—noise that doesn’t quiet until he (somehow) falls asleep.

A few hours later, after waking up in the evening to his caretakers’ absence, Altaïr puts his hood up and makes his decision.

 

* * *

 

He returns to Lacuna and makes a beeline for Dr. Vidic’s office regardless of the young receptionist’s, Lucy’s, protests.

“Doctor, I’m so sorry, he just barged in and demanded to see you!”

“I want to do it!” Altaïr announces, looking the doctor in the eyes from his hood. “I want the procedure. Please.”

Vidic glances at the boisterous young man, then stands up. “Very well, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad.”

Lucy reacts with surprise. “You’ll take him? But Doctor, you have such a busy schedule going on now.”

“It’s all right, Ms. Stillman. Who are we to refuse someone who willingly makes this decision?” Vidic explains. “He’s encountered a truth no one should have to find out, and we should bear the responsibility of that.” He readdresses Altaïr, “Please follow me.”

 

* * *

 

Lacuna’s procedure guarantees that Altaïr will completely forget about Malik, by way of erasing memories from the existence of Altaïr’s mind.

To start, Altaïr is instructed to go home and gather all significant belongings and possessions associated with his relationship to Malik. Presents, shared trinkets, even items that merely _remind_ him of Malik—they are to be cleaned out of his home so that after the procedure is complete, there will be no items left to confuse him of a person he doesn’t remember.

Altaïr steels himself to scour through his apartment and see every intended item dumped unceremoniously into a trash bag. (Stuffed toys, handwritten letters, gifts like books and movies, and all the sweaters and scarves and clothes Malik still had at his place. He even rips out entire pages from his journal, the one he said he would take good care of because _it was a birthday present_.) He also has to go through his phone and computer to delete as much of their content as possible. (Photos, messages, chat histories, recordings. Even entire accounts he used might as well be deleted. It’s all too terrifying to keep up, he resigns with trembling conclusion.)

There are so many things that belong to his life with Malik, that it’s a wonder how much is left from life before. Altaïr cleans out his place with heavy resignation, accepting that their time has ended, and it all has to go.

 

* * *

 

Altaïr arrives at Lacuna the next day with two trash bags full, and waits with the other patients until he is called in.

He follows Dr. Vidic through the halls of Lacuna’s clinic to a room in the back. En route, they pass by a young man in a lab coat and a noticeable ponytail.

“This is Ezio Auditore, one of our experienced technicians,” Vidic introduces of the young man. “He’ll be handling your procedure tonight.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,” Ezio greets with a smile, then offers to take the bags Altaïr brought in. After handing them over, Altaïr watches Ezio leave for another room before Vidic leads him elsewhere.

“Mr. Auditore will see your belongings are disposed of. While he’s setting up, we’ll be getting something done for your file.”

Altaïr is led to the doctor’s office, where he’s seated at the desk as an audio recorder is placed in the center.

“You and I will have a little interview, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, so that we can understand the memories you wish to focus on,” Vidic explains as he hits the record button. “Begin by stating your name and who you are here to erase.”

“My name is Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad,” he speaks, his voice meek and tentative. “And I want to erase Malik Al-Sayf.”

Vidic nods. “Tell me about Malik.”

“Like what?”

“What you know about him, how you met, what are things you did together…everything, really. We need to have an in-depth profile. Why don’t you start from the beginning, and we’ll go where the conversation leads us.”

It’s easy to explain the beginning. “We met at the beach,” Altaïr recounts. “Malik tricked me into falling in the water because I couldn’t swim. But, I got even by pulling him down with me…”

As he continues to talk, Altaïr realizes it’s been a long time since he brought up the story of Malik to anyone. What he doesn’t realize is how much it really pains him to speak about their story at all.

 

* * *

 

Following the interview, Altaïr is led into a patient room where he is seated in an exam chair.

“We’re going to create a map of your brain, so that we can locate which memories need to be erased,” Vidic explains as he places a helmet-like apparatus on Altaïr. “To achieve this, we’ll be monitoring your brain activity as you think back to your memories.”

“It’s very simple, we’re not asking too much from you,” Ezio says. “We want you to react to the items that you have brought in.”

Altaïr nods, agreeing that it is simple enough. What is not simple is seeing the first item placed on the desk in front of him—a stuffed eagle.

“No need to speak to us about it,” Ezio clarifies. “Just concentrate, and focus on the memory. We’ll get a stronger reading from your reaction that way.”

So Altaïr sits and speaks not with his words, but his eyes. As he looks at each item before him, the technician and the doctor watch the patterns on their computer and make little exclamations of “Oh!” and “There it is!”—as if they can understand the train of thought running through Altaïr’s head. _It’s not simple_ , he thinks he would say. It’s not a foolproof, robotic task to remember every little story, every little moment that springs to mind when he is prompted. Everything is so busy in his head (thoughts _racing_ and feelings _rushing_ and words _remembering_ ) that it becomes unbearable to remember why he was doing this in the first place. ( _He and Malik fucked up, really, and what they had was never coming back._ )

Eventually, the mapping process is done. Any second later, and Altaïr might’ve forgotten how to blink, or breathe.

 

* * *

 

After final preparations are complete, Altaïr gets briefed on the procedure that will take place in his home. During the night, Lacuna’s technicians will come in and work on erasing his memories while he sleeps. They will leave before morning, and Altaïr will awaken, as if from a strange dream which he can’t remember. “Your memory, your home, and your life will be free of Malik,” Vidic describes, “and you will be free to move on, and resume your life anew.”

Altaïr drives home with a lot to think about, all sorts of thoughts swarming his head like angry bees. Is he wrong? Is he right? Is it for his own good or will nothing change?

But between living with the knowledge of Malik now or having a chance to forget Malik ever happened—he’d choose to forget.

 

* * *

 

“Altaïr!” A cheery voice calls out. It is Rauf, a neighbor who greets him at the mailboxes. “Good to see you tonight. I trust you’ve been well?”

“Yeah,” Altaïr mutters, not really in the mood to talk so late at night. He collects his stack of mail and identifies a package for him from Lacuna. “Dealing with this?” He says of his splint. “It’s bearable.”

“I’m glad your wrist is getting better. I can only wish you well on recovery.”

“Thanks.”

“On another note—how’s Malik doing?” Rauf asks.

“He’s fine. He’s doing fine,” Altaïr responds (an automatic, default answer to every time he has heard the question). He looks down at his things, hidden by a hood and stung by the thought. “I haven’t seen him lately, to be honest,” he admits. “I hope he’s doing better. Better than he should be. I wouldn’t wish it any other way.”

“I believe in time, you and Malik can allow it in yourselves to reconcile with each other.”

“Maybe,” Altaïr grits and shakes his head. “Listen, I gotta go. Have to sleep early tonight.” He collects his stuff and heads for the elevator.

“Have a good night, Altaïr,” Rauf nods. “I know things have been rough, but if there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

Altaïr pauses for a moment, then gives a wave back. “Thank you, Rauf,” he acknowledges, because it is the least he can do.

 

* * *

 

He arrives at his apartment with little time to idle. He opens the package from Lacuna and finds a new set of sleepwear and the pills to ensure he’s sedated the entire night. With not much else to do, Altaïr goes on with his bedtime routine—changing into sleepwear, brushing his teeth, filling a glass of water to take the pills with—and then curiously checks his phone again for messages.

Any, any will do, but no such luck happens. Before he can do something stupid, Altaïr downs the pills with water and prepares himself to go to sleep. He lies flat, makes sure he’s comfortable under the blankets, and switches off the last light in the bedroom.

All he can hope for now is to dream the night away.

 

* * *

 

They are the suspicious and questionable van that arrives late into the night, and once they see the lights from the window turned off, they head in to park.

“Showtime, _amico mio,_ ” Ezio declares as he turns to his companion in the passenger seat. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“I guess I have to be,” Desmond Miles says in disbelief. He hasn’t even removed his seatbelt, as he’s still fixated on the (familiar) apartment complex ahead. “Didn’t think it would happen so soon. These two of all people.”

Ezio leans back and sighs. “Time couldn’t heal his wounds for so long, could it? Think of it as, we’re here to help. It’ll be easier for the two of them after this,” he says to reassure the younger man. “Think of Altaïr. You’re here for his sake, right?”

Altaïr is kin, and Desmond has understood this in spending the past several weeks helping and looking out for him during his recovery. To see Lacuna’s services called in, though, seems to undo most of that effort, and a part of Desmond feels that it is _his_ fault.

Lost in thought about all the ways it could’ve happened, Desmond looks at Ezio, and merely replies, “Yeah, I am.”

The pair enters the apartment and sets up their equipment at the foot of the sleeping patient’s bed. While Ezio plugs in the computer, Desmond wraps a blood pressure cuff around Altaïr’s (good) arm and fits a large helmet over his head. With assembly complete, the technicians take their seats and boot up the computer.

“Hello, Animus, my old friend…” Ezio muses as the memory-accessing program begins. A projection screen appears above the headboard, and a visualization of Altaïr appears in a cloudy blue room, waiting for his memories to take center stage.

 

* * *

 

( _Searching for relevant memory data…_ )  
( _Subject’s memory synchronized._ )  
( _Retrieving information…_ )

_“How’s Malik doing?” Altaïr hears from his neighbor, and already the question stings._

_“Fine. He’s doing fine,” He responds, automatic like the rest of the times he’s heard it. “I haven’t seen him lately, to be honest,” he admits, while looking down and keeping himself out of view from under his hood. “I hope he’s doing better. Better than he should be. I wouldn’t wish it any other way.”_

_“I believe in time,” the neighbor replies, “you and Malik can allow it in yourselves to reconcile with each other.”_

_Altaïr shakes his head, mostly to himself, with the rueful knowledge that forgiveness is impossible. “Maybe,” he half-grits, half-wishes._

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

_Maria could wrangle bullshit, but so could Altaïr. Desmond shakes his head as he watches the proceedings fly back and forth._

_“You_ went _to see Malik when you were_ not _supposed to.”_

_“Cut the crap, Thorpe, I want answers now,” Altaïr seethes._

_“You lunatic,” Maria retorts. “What makes you think I’m not telling you anything?”_

_“You didn’t think I’d figure it out—Malik looked at me like he never saw me before. Is this a set-up? Is this some kind of joke that you’re all in on?”_

_Desmond tries to intervene. “It’s not a joke, Altaïr.”_

_“Does anyone wanna tell me why that happened? Or why some other guy was at his house?” Altaïr’s voice escalates in frustration. “Did he ditch me for someone better, some replacement friend!?”_

_“ALTAÏR!” Maria shouts, interrupting his angry spiel and making the uncomfortable silence grow even thicker. “You can’t let that bother you. There are some things beyond our control and you just have to swallow it.”_

_“Swallow it,” Altaïr parrots with sarcasm. “Like that will do me any good.”_

_Maria goes back to sitting at the kitchen table, giving up, while Altaïr stays fuming in his spot. It’s at this point Desmond abruptly gets up, and goes to Altaïr with a small, yellow card from his pocket._

_“Desmond,” Maria warns. “Don’t you dare.”_

_“I’m done putting up with this,” he tells her, and holds out the card for Altaïr. “We got this in the mail—some time back.”_

_Altaïr grabs it and reads the message._

_The world seems to become a horrible place after getting gut punched by it._

 

* * *

 

Wait.

Nothing’s supposed to happen this way. Why does he have the feeling this has all happened before?

“Déjà vu?” Altaïr speaks, and it startles him how he said that out loud.

He finds himself sitting in the Lacuna office’s exam chair—a _literal_  version of himself from where he’s standing at the doorway. There’s the doctor and the assistant, and then Altaïr who sits in a strange chair with a helmet as they seem to run tests on his brain.

 _He probably knows what the doctor’s about to say at this point, right?_ He remembers this dialogue a little too clearly.

“We’re going to create a map of your brain, so that we can locate which memories need to be erased,” he and the doctor speak, exactly at the same time in speed and intonation that it startles him. Altaïr reacts with a yelp that catches the attention of the doctor. “What am I doing here?” he asks. “Where am I?”

“Hm?” The doctor looks up, then suddenly steps away (from the scene) to wander around. “So this must be your memory… Gotta say, it’s not what you thought it would be, is it?”

“But why am I _here?_ " Altaïr asks again. “If I’m right _here_ ," he points, "then what is _he_  doing _there?_ ” He says of the doppelgänger sitting in the chair.

“Well, the mind can be a very active place for some, though I can’t say for sure,” the doctor replies. “Perhaps, you’ll just have to find out on your own?”

“ _Amazing, he’s handling this pretty well! He’s experiencing a better adjustment rate than most others._ ”

Altaïr looks around. “Who was that?”

“ _Well if he’s in a coma, I doubt he has much room to resist._ ”

“Did you hear that?” Altaïr asks again. “Where’s that coming from?”

“I’m sorry, but I need to get back to work right now. I’m sure you’ll find something locked away in this head of yours,” The doctor acknowledges before turning back to the patient.

It is then that the lights start to power off, forcing Altaïr to leave the room and keep walking down the hall until he’s out of the building. As he walks, though, he strains to hear the rest of that mysterious conversation.

“ _All right, that covers that. The real show begins here. Ready?_ ”

“ _As ready as you are, Ezio._ ”

“Ezio?” Altaïr asks himself, but before he can stop to think, everything around him transforms.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

“Kadar is dead and IT IS YOUR FAULT!”

Malik’s pain is two-times-tenfold that Altaïr could never forget. They shouldn’t have been kept near each other, nor should Altaïr have asked why their third companion wasn’t with them. A myriad of injuries were sustained between the both of them—gashes, bruises, and a broken wrist for which Altaïr has a cast—but the most prominent is Malik’s left arm, amputated and absent.

“There were too many things happening at once!” Altaïr hurls back. “What was I supposed to do!? I can’t just save everyone from danger!”

“BECAUSE YOU WOULDN’T LISTEN TO ME!” Malik roars, his voice raw and hoarse with hate. “You were at the damn wheel, OF COURSE you could’ve done something! All of this could’ve been prevented if it wasn’t for you!”

“Malik-”

“DON’T! Don’t you fucking dare. Who _are you_  to talk to me anymore after what you did? What you’ve done to _me_ , what you’ve done to _Kadar!_  I should’ve been dead like him instead of being left to live like this!”

And Altaïr would’ve spoken back, if not for the wound forced open when he hears those words. Any fight left in him is lost at Malik’s pained cry, and suddenly all his physical injuries seem minor compared to what was really broken.

Looking down, he quietly asks, “Malik, why would you _say_  that?”

Malik, Malik who was wronged, severed, and destroyed,  **frightens** him. It is fear uprising, the kind that terrified Altaïr (and terrified him still, for all his bravado and self-worth) and left him hurting in silence.

“Get out, Altaïr,” Malik says with finality. “I don’t want to see you again.”

When Altaïr bolts out the door, he doesn’t know what to feel. The room in the hospital starts to darken, with lights powering off as he sprints down the hallway. That was the last time he saw Malik, before everything about himself was forgotten and Altaïr realized they never made amends.

“All right,” Altaïr finds himself saying, and suddenly the words don’t stop. “All right, Malik! Are you happy now!?” His voice rises. “I won’t see you anymore! I’m ERASING you! I won’t be sorry because _you did this_ to me first!”

He keeps running down the corridor, a hallway with no end, as he runs from his fears and the person he knows he wronged most. All he can do to feel better is remember that he is going to forget.

“You’ll be gone by tomorrow morning, Malik! GONE!” He screams (to no one in particular). “What a perfect goodbye, to this  _shitty and fucked up story!_ ”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

“Wait! There has to be another way to get back!”

Malik’s protests are swiftly ignored by Altaïr making a sudden turn onto yet another road they can’t see in the dark.

Altaïr had been called to pick up the Al-Sayf brothers from a late-night event, but the usual road home was closed off, forcing him to take a detour into an area he was not familiar with. From the way things were going south with Malik, taking them home felt less like a favor and more of an inconvenient chore.

“Fine! It seems your way is better,” Malik huffs.

“Altaïr, are you sure you know the way back?” Kadar asks from the backseat. “Why don’t we stop and figure out where we are first?”

“Just let me focus!” Altaïr snaps. “Don’t talk and I might find something.”

“Indeed,” Malik sneers. “The only thing he’s finding out is how to be a complete jackass.”

“Are you gonna keep snarking this whole ride, Malik? Or are you actually gonna help?”

“What’s this, you’re _asking_ for my help now?” Malik scoffs and mutters, “I thought the Son-of-No-One didn’t _need_ help.”

“Guys, can we just pay attention!?” Kadar interrupts, forced to raise his voice. “What are we looking for—Temple?”

“I think we’re on Solomon right now,” Altaïr replies.

“We don’t have time to get lost on every single street!” Malik shouts in frustration. “But THANK YOU, ALTAÏR, because this isn’t even the way to get home!”

“Would you just SHUT UP, MALIK?” Altaïr finally bites back. “My way is better, but I’m tired and it’s just so late right now!”

They’re rammed awake, though, by a car that rudely collides with theirs as it drags and tears past their right side. Caught off by the sudden shock, Altaïr scrambles to bring his car to a stop by steering away from the intruder and hopefully stop at the upcoming red light. The brake still works, thankfully, but the three passengers are still too scared out of their wits to react properly.

The road grows silent again as the offending car drives off. Everyone would be in prime position to start calling accusations, but that never happens due to the (slow, _seconds too late_ ) realization that they are stopped in the middle of an intersection.

The car barreling toward them with blinding headlights and ungodly screeching is their worst nightmare. Kadar barely shouts, “LOOK OUT!” before everything goes to hell.

In that final moment of clarity, Altaïr sees Kadar leaping up from the backseat and throwing himself in front of Malik—all from his peripheral vision. The approaching car smashes into theirs, and everywhere is metal crunching and glass shattering and light burning and throwing them under fire. Altaïr’s arms are jerked away from the wheel and slammed straight into other parts of the car, and the resulting force of impact knocks him out immediately.

_This is the stuff of nightmares that he wants, and wishes, to forget._

 

* * *

 

( _Now loading…_ )

“ _Holy shit, what just happened? The screen just went black… was that the end? Wait- there he is. He’s in the corridor again._ ”

“ _Desmond, I’m gonna pause the session now._ ”

“ _Go ahead, we need a break… It’s okay to just leave him there, right?_ ”

“ _Yeah. Give the Animus a break, too._ ”

 

* * *

 

Ezio doesn’t waste a second inputting commands to suspend the session. An image of Altaïr waits in the blue loading screen while the Animus goes into standby. For Desmond and Ezio, taking their eyes off the screen is a relief, but the silence in the room thickens as they struggle to understand what they saw.

Desmond turns to his colleague and asks, “Hey, you okay?”

Ezio tries not to look shaken, though his voice nearly breaks. “Yeah? Yeah, I’m good… I should be worried about _you_ ,” he gestures to the younger man, “you shouldn’t have to see these memories.”

“No one should have to go through that,” Desmond corrects. “I mean, it fucked up everything…”

“At least they won’t have nightmares anymore,” Ezio offers as consolation. “It may go a long way to helping them recover.”

“I hope so.” At this, Desmond gets up from his chair to head for the kitchen. “Let’s go get drinks. We can relax a bit before continuing work.”

Perhaps the advantage of having Desmond as his co-worker was that, as a family member of their current patient, he could freely go about Altaïr’s apartment without feeling like a stranger intruding on someone’s privacy. Ezio had been surprised to be joined by the younger man for this assignment, but so far, Desmond was helpful in sharing what he knew about Altaïr’s background.

It is a trying task to stay up all night and sit at a computer sifting through a person’s memories, but the technicians of Lacuna handle it as best as they can. They spend break time drinking coffee and sharing stories about work, until the conversation gradually shifts back to Altaïr and Malik, the central focus of the Animus for the night.

“So you knew Altaïr was going to take the procedure,” Ezio recalls. “How did he know about Lacuna?”

Desmond admits, “I had to tell him—Malik had the procedure done first. He went to see Malik a few days ago, then came back wondering why Malik didn’t even recognize him.”

“ _Mio dio,_ ” Ezio reacts. “It’s one followed by the other.”

“And here you are again, assigned to Altaïr.”

“Guess it’s easier if the technician already knows the history,” Ezio reasons. “It doesn’t make the memories any less upsetting though.”

“I can’t believe it,” Desmond sighs. “First the accident, and now this. Never in a million years would you think this was gonna happen to them.”

“Hopefully, I can try to make things better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say,” And Ezio isn’t sure about telling this, but ultimately he reveals, “I tried to make friends with Malik after his procedure?”

“Is that even allowed?” Desmond asks in surprise.

“You’ll still talk to Altaïr after this is over, right?” The Italian responds. “Lucky for you, and lucky for _him_. But Malik… he has no one else now. Someone’s gotta be there for him, you know?”

And Desmond would’ve given an answer, if not for the fact that the person he thought Malik needed was currently asleep in bed, wearing a strange helmet programmed by a computer. So he only replies, “You’re right. Let’s get back to Altaïr now.”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

Altaïr comes home at the hour of who-cares-what-clock to a face full of sternness and disdain rather than simply getting a break.

“You _dare_  come back this late without telling me where you went?” Malik greets.

“Like you were even worried!” Altaïr spits as he makes air quotes. “And what are _you_  doing here? Do I have to beg to be let in now?” Every statement is aimed to irritate his visitor. If Altaïr learned anything from being with ‘the King of the Sword,’ it was certainly how to sharpen his own verbal blade. “Safety and _peace_ , Malik!” He mocks as he moves for his bedroom.

“Your presence here gives me _neither_ ,” Malik snarls, “so why don’t you just do me a favor and get out!”

“You can’t kick me out of _my own house!_ ”

“Well if you had the _gall_ to drag your sorry ass here on foot, I think _you can manage_ getting yourself elsewhere to stay for the night.”

“Make me!” Altaïr scoffs as he stamps his way to the bedroom. “Or for once, you could just _fuck off_ and leave me alone!”

And he slams the door shut to hammer in the defiance in that statement. He doesn’t hear another word from the other side.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the doorbell interrupts their concentration, but it’s Desmond who gets up to answer the door—for someone Ezio wasn’t expecting.

“Hey, Lucy! Glad you could make it!”

Immediately, Ezio doesn’t know how to react. He’d been aware that Desmond was seeing the Lacuna receptionist for some time, but inviting her over in the middle of work seemed odd, even for someone as committed to this assignment as Desmond.

Lucy and her beau share quick greetings and kisses before springing into lively chatter. Ezio pays them no mind and focuses on the work in front of him, but soon the lovebirds come along and he’s obliged to chat with them.

Desmond introduces, “Ezio, you’ve met Lucy.”

“Evening,” Ezio curtly replies. “So what brings you here to see Desmond?”

“Oh, I just got off work a while ago, but Desmond called and asked if I was free tonight,” The young woman answers. “How could I refuse?”

“Lucy’s been really interested in the Animus lately,” Desmond chimes in. “There’s a lot she’s told me about it that I didn’t know.”

“Yeah!” she lights up. “Like how the Animus knows to group memories in order, so that they don’t just randomly happen all over the place.”

“Well, the Animus is quite the machine,” Ezio comments, adding along to her enthusiasm. “I suppose the more help we get is better than none.”

It is then that while observing the Animus and the boys’ work station set up around it, Lucy identifies the mugs sitting at their small table.

“Coffee only? Well, if that’s all you need to stay up the whole night,” she comments. “Got anything stronger in this place?”

“I could mix something up,” Desmond volunteers, raising a hand and getting up. Lucy follows him to the kitchen, where they look through the fridge. “Altaïr prolly shouldn’t need his secret stash anymore…” he comments.

Ezio worries at the thought of having a stronger drink, but just as Desmond and Lucy are out of earshot, his phone starts to ring.

“Hello?” He answers. “Malik, hey- what’s wrong? … Oh. Okay, um- … Want me to come visit? … I can make it! I’m not that far. … I’ll be there in a few minutes. Won’t be long.”

“Desmond, I gotta go!” he announces while he moves to pack his things. “Something urgent’s come up.”

“You’re what-? Ezio, we’re in the middle of work! You can’t just up and leave!” Desmond protests.

“It’s Malik, okay?” Ezio leaves the bedroom with his backpack in tow, about to head for the front door. “He didn’t sound well when he called, so I’m going over to see how he’s doing.”

“We’re erasing Altaïr’s memory, and you’re gonna go see the person who erased him in the first place?”

“ _Mi dispiace,_ ” The Italian pleads with his hands clasped in front of him. “But Malik _cannot_ be left alone when he’s like this.”

“Okay,” Desmond concedes. “Then what about the Animus? You did all the preparation today—what if something happens that I don’t know about?”

“The Animus is already configured,” Ezio instructs. “All the settings and stuff, you don’t have to touch them. Just keep doing what we’ve been doing, and it’ll get finished in no time.”

“It’s all right, Ezio,” Lucy says with a wave. “I’m here to help.”

Desmond sighs. “You can go—since you’re so set on going.”

“I owe you, Desmond, _and_ Lucy. Thank you. I’ll see you again.”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

The day is uneventful, same in and same out.

Altaïr gets home from work earlier (as usual), so he’s in charge of getting dinner for him and Malik (as usual). Though nowadays, he defaults more to takeout because making dinner on his own is a hassle he’s not willing to undergo. It’s not like Malik appreciates his “novice” effort anyways.

Malik comes home with no fanfare, probably wishing he could talk to Kadar instead of Altaïr. But Kadar isn’t home for another hour or two, and that time is merely spent taking dinner and eating in silence.

There’s nothing comfortable anymore about the silence. Altaïr would say something just to talk, but in recent experience, talking to Malik when he isn’t in the mood only ends up in arguing and exchanging of barbs. So in the common interest of everyone, he keeps mum until Malik decides to say something.

That never happens, because Malik manages to finish dinner, get up from the couch, and throw away his trash all without even acknowledging Altaïr’s presence in his home.

“I don’t get a thank you?” Altaïr calls out, irked.

Malik just heads for his bedroom with no intention of coming back out. “It’s more than you deserve,” he only says before shutting the door.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

“Altaïr, WAKE UP. Setting alarms every five minutes isn’t gonna help you!”

Malik was up centuries ago and Altaïr couldn’t care less. All he wants is more sleep and no going to work.

“Altaïr, you have ten minutes to get up!”

“I’m not going!” he shouts, sounding pained and hopefully not well. “I’m staying home!”

“You’re not sick, I know you didn’t sleep early last night!” Malik refutes. “ _Please_ , get ready for work.”

“FINE!” Altaïr screams, his mood immediately rotten. He kicks away the blankets and makes a show of stamping everywhere to express his frustration. There’s no better motivator to feeling shitty than feeling even _shittier_.

He gets dressed and leaves the bedroom, but Malik looks at him with disappointment. “Kadar leaves earlier than _both of us_ and he _never_ complains like that,” he hisses. Altaïr doesn’t bother to speak.

He eats through what he can of breakfast (there’s not much time for that) before Malik grabs his things and heads out for the door. Altaïr lamely tries to catch up and pull Malik for a goodbye kiss, but Malik shrugs him off in irritation.

“I don’t get a kiss?” Altaïr complains.

“I don’t get a _thank you?_ ” Malik challenges. The surprise is there on Altaïr’s face, right as Malik walks away to his car and drives off.

It was a first.

 

* * *

 

“Rewinding memory to a more recent one,” Lucy mimics in the style of the Animus interface voice. “Seriously, what an amazing device. The Animus is so useful for Lacuna, you know?”

“You could say,” Desmond replies. A few cocktails courtesy of his mixing later, and already they’re waxing philosophical. “Just hope it really helps the people getting their memories wiped.”

“Oh yeah, Altaïr’s your relative,” she remembers. “What it’s like, having it happen to your family?”

It makes Desmond look away from the screen for a moment. “Feels terrible,” he says bluntly, prompting her to squeeze his hand. “It was his decision, but really, what could have stopped him? Once he found out, how could he be convinced to not go through with it?”

Lucy lies back on the bed, regardless of Altaïr sleeping in it, and gazes at the low-lit ceiling. “Maybe when he made his choice, he thought it was for the best.”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

“Who’s Ezio?”

Altaïr looks around. They’re in the living room, sitting side by side on the couch reading off their phones, and there is Malik innocently asking him a question.

“Malik… Sorry, what?”

“You’re saying the name of some ‘Ezio’ over and over. Who is he?”

This is the first time they’re talking _peacefully_ , and for the most part, Altaïr is confused.

“I heard him talking about _you_ ,” he answers. “Don’t you know him?”

“No,” Malik shakes his head. “Never heard of the name until now.”

“I want to know where I heard him. I _heard_ Ezio before I met him! Why does he sound so familiar?” Altaïr ponders, furrowing his brow. “And…I could hear Desmond too. What was _he_ doing there?”

“What’s so important about them that you need to know?”

“I can’t remember, they were talking about- _Wait._ Was it…” Altaïr’s eyes widen. “This is the-!”

By the time he makes the realization, the entire scene starts to vanish. The walls around them shift into white and blue colors as objects fade into a haze that shouldn’t be there.

“Malik! No!" Altaïr calls out in panic—in fear of what will happen, and in fear he is already too late. “It’s because something is happening to you! Come back!”

 

* * *

 

Ezio arrives at the apartment and is met by an unusually awake Malik launching into all sorts of apologies.

“Sorry for keeping you up this late, I didn’t know what else to do! I don’t know if I should’ve told anyone at all.”

“It’s all right! No worries,” Ezio assures as he follows his friend inside. He takes a seat on the couch and motions, “’s not a bother, Malik. I’m all ears.”

“Same reason as always—nightmare, can’t sleep, get up and think,” Malik admits, though his voice remains low and quiet. “But this time, it wasn’t so easy to shake off the feeling… I ended up remembering how _silent_ this whole place is. I’m the only one here, and…it’s just so unnerving, uneasy. How can you deal with this? How can you deal with being so alone?” The one-armed man rambles, as if there’s a need to speak and say what’s eating at him.

Ezio can’t fault Malik for being this way, but fortunately, he thinks up a suggestion. “Maybe we need a distraction—walk around, find something that can get your mind off this?”

“I need to get out. Being here is stifling,” Malik answers, before an idea comes to him like a revelation. “Let’s go to the beach,” he decides.

Immediately, Ezio is dumbfounded. “Malik, do you know what time it is? We can go visit the beach tomorrow.”

“No!” He shouts suddenly. “I feel like going  _now!_ I need someplace to be calm, _get this silence out of my head!_ ”

And the thing about Malik’s pained insistence is that Ezio knows—he can’t refuse the man after everything was taken away from him.

The result is having to call Desmond, saying, “I won’t be able to come back, something else came up. The rest is on you tonight.”

What curiously strikes him is the way Desmond responds. “ _No worries, Ezio,_ ” He hears in a cheerful, ‘it’s all okay’ tone. “ _The Animus is doing a good job! Everything’s Denver here!_ ” Ezio is confused by Desmond’s choice of idiom, but realizes that he seems to be in a better mood than before. He would inquire further, but he figures there isn’t much time to talk on it. Malik already opens the front door without waiting, and Ezio is obligated to follow.

“I owe you, Desmond Miles,” he briefly says before the line hangs up.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

“Altaïr?”

He turns to his side and there is Malik, lying awake in the dark, unable to sleep. Altaïr reaches over with a comforting squeeze of hand. “What is it, Mal?”

“Have you ever thought I could be unwanted?”

Altaïr shifts onto his side to face his bedmate. “Well, not since we’ve been friends, I doubt I’d believe that. And I want _you_ ,” he says as he hugs Malik. “Isn’t that proof enough?”

“But I wasn’t always this accepting,” Malik responds. “I wasn’t the best person at making friends, let alone keeping close with them. Even Kadar told you just as much.”

“What do you mean?” Altaïr asks, wanting to know more.

Malik confesses a story. “Growing up, I was the odd one. I was quiet, didn’t really like to talk or make friends. Apparently, I didn’t know how to make friends as a kid. I must’ve been too picky and no-nonsense with everything, that everyone thought I was just a mean and grumpy person they would stay away from.

“The point is—people I befriend? They don’t stay for long, or at least, I don’t. I’ve never had many who I could call dear to me, and I don’t know what makes it last. I try to befriend people and they eventually leave me. Like I’m too horrible to them when something goes wrong. It doesn’t mean I’m heartless!” His voice reaches a breaking point, and then he breaks. “I’m not heartless,” Malik whispers, sounding faint. “I’m not heartless…”

“You’re not, Malik, you’re _not_ ,” Altaïr finds himself saying. “You care. You’re _loved_ ,” over and over as he kisses Malik’s shoulders, and then Malik’s neck, before their lips meet and they are drowning, drinking, _consuming_ their love.

 _Vidic,_   _if I could keep just one memory,_ please _…can I keep this one?_

 _Just one, please…_ he thinks as the room around them _breaks_. The white walls rise up and everything around dismantles, everything a bleak and hollow reminder that a memory is just one more needless thing to erase.

Altaïr still looks down, where Malik is gone from his arms. Immediately, he shuts his eyes and wishes all of this was not real.

 

* * *

 

It’s not a long drive down to the beach, what with the non-existent traffic out on the road this late, but it’s still tedious, winding, and too far away for Ezio to be driving on the fly. Visiting a beach at night defeats the whole purpose of visiting a beach in the first place: no sun, no people, and no lights (not at _this_ late an hour). The Italian is confused at his friend’s intentions, but seeing Malik leave the car and head straight for where the sound of waves takes him is consolation enough.

Malik gazes at the endless space, the sight of sand and sea, with nothing else to be seen for miles on either end. The sound of the waves is constant, something he hasn’t heard in a long time.

He starts walking out to the surf, and then breaks into a sudden sprint. Out here, he feels free. _Running_  makes him feel like he can still do _something_. Everything around him is so vast, but what is the world to tell him nothing is possible?

He hears Ezio calling after him and catching up. “Malik! Wait for me! What are we gonna do here?”

“Follow me if you want!” Malik calls as he runs faster. He has no particular end in sight, but it’s the most certain he’s felt about something in a long time.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

When Malik reaches the rooftop, Altaïr greets him with the view of the night skyline.

“You made it!” He cheers, holding his arms out wide. “Surprise, Malik!”

Malik himself is out of breath from rushing up the stairs, but his gaze as he takes in the sight is all worth it. “Wow,” he lets out. “So this is why you wanted me to get up here.”

“I know, right? Didn’t know if we’d still be able to come up here—but the view at night is amazing. I really wanted you to see it at least once.”

“You really love places where you can feel so high up and free,” Malik observes.

“Didn’t I tell you," Altaïr proclaims like an excited little boy, "I’m king of the world!”

Malik laughs, “Your world, perhaps!”

“Well, I believe,” Altaïr says with the timing of a punchline, “you’re part of it now!”

The intention meets its mark, because Malik has to stop for a moment before breaking out into an amused, ‘I’m-impressed-with-you’ grin. “You, Altaïr, are so unbelievable at times—and I love you for it.”

The comment comes as a surprise to Altaïr, who looks away out of the sheer shyness blushing on his face. “Malik-! Gosh, I wasn’t ready for a speech, umm…” His instinct is to reach back for his hood when Malik catches both of his hands, holding him in place. “Wh-what did I say?”

“Altaïr. What did I tell you?” Malik asks, in a gentle tone like he would encourage a frightened child. “You don’t have to be nervous. It’s okay.”

It must be the way Malik squeezes his hands, how he lets them be pulled down for Malik to have a full, uncovered view of his lover’s face. Altaïr was always nervous about intimacy as close as this, but it must be the way Malik smiles, or the peace he feels being with him, or the fact that the warmth of this gesture is enough to make his heart melt.

Altaïr is about to kiss Malik when Malik suddenly vanishes—right before his eyes.

As if he disappeared into thin air, Malik is gone. Out of sight, _out of mind._

And it must be something that snaps into place, because Altaïr suddenly remembers what is happening. He looks around to see the lights of the skyline go out, leaving most of the surroundings in pitch night. Only the dim lights from the roof remain, but they may not stay the same for long.

Altaïr understands _what_ is happening, but his acceptance of _why_ is far from pronounced.

 

* * *

 

Malik starts to slow his pace, once his legs tire and his energy is well-spent. That respite is interrupted when Ezio suddenly slams into him from behind.

The impact makes Malik stumble forward, causing him to flail with his sole arm and fall into the sand due to the lack of balance. “ _Watch it!_ ” He says with as much frustration as he can manage.

“Sorry! Didn’t see you, I was distracted!” Ezio apologizes.

He stays back to let Malik get up and check that he’s not hurt anywhere, but when the one-armed man does this all in silence, Ezio hesitantly tries to change the subject.

“Something must’ve really made you take off like that, huh?” He comments. “Whew! I gotta say, Malik, you run really fast! Guess it was good to get out of the house and do this for you.”

Malik doesn’t respond. He looks at Ezio with a scowl, but if he _is_ frustrated, then he is doing a good job at controlling his urge to shout.

“Malik? What’s wrong?”

“I’m done running,” he says, in a calm, tempered tone with no other explanation. “Let’s go home. It’s getting late.”

 

* * *

 

( _Now loading…_ )

“Malik!? MALIK!” Altaïr screams. The louder he sounds, the more he feels like he is in control. “ _Malik, where are you!?_ ”

He runs in the room full of blue and white haze, thinking that he will find something. But no matter how far or how fast he runs, there’s nothing to be found, and nothing to be felt except for _frustration_.

“ _Vidic!_ ” He calls out to the space around him. “I want out! Please, just stop this and get me out of here!”

But there is no one who listens, no response to be heard. As Altaïr sinks to his knees in helplessness, he pleads one last time.

“Can you hear me, you _bastard!?_ I wanna quit! I wanna get out of here!  _Someone get me out of here!_ ”

 

* * *

 

In truth, Desmond can’t explain how it got to this point.

One moment, they’re drinking and talking about Altaïr and the struggles of work—specifically reliving people’s unwanted memories for a living both in and out of work. Lucy is fascinated at what Desmond gets to do, as her work is all clerical than practice, but the technician wails that he’s getting tired and wishes this long night could just be over already.

It’s Lucy who comes up with a brilliant idea—“Why not just put it on autopilot?”—and _bless her_ , why didn’t they do that sooner? All it takes is the switch of a button! Within seconds, the action on the Animus screen starts moving by without even lifting a finger. Now the memory erasing is faster than having to pick at it the old and slow way.

Desmond gives a victorious whoop. “We’ll be done by tonight, tops!” Fueled on extreme happiness, Lucy says they gotta celebrate with music, and by courtesy of a phone and speakers, the young lovers can have their cake and eat it. There’s no better feeling than jumping and parading around the room, feeling free and having fun like the world isn’t watching.

But it’s _because_ the world isn’t watching, that there’s only one way the night can end…appropriately.

 

* * *

 

( _Now loading…_ )

“ _Altaïr!_ ”

“ _Malik!?_ ”

“ _Over here!_ ”

“ _We need to go._ ”

“ _Why?_ ”

“ _They’re erasing you, Malik. They’re erasing you and I’m gonna forget all about you!_ ”

“ _Then where do we go?_ ”

“ _Anywhere… Anywhere they can’t find us!_ ”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

In the middle of the outdoor marketplace, everything around them starts vanishing, from the people to the objects. As the town square empties, it becomes apparent they don’t have much time.

“Think, THINK!” Altaïr coaches himself as they stop to gather their bearings. “Where’s a place we can go where the erasers can’t find us!?”

“Somewhere they won’t _expect_  to find us!” Malik responds. “Whoever’s erasing me—already knows what they’re looking for, right? So we have to break that line of sight and lose them!”

“Okay…” Altaïr closes his eyes, and then thinks of an idea. “Got it. I know a place where we can hide!”

 

* * *

 

( _Error: Area unavailable during current memory._ )

Altaïr’s idea of a hiding place involves a garden full of colors, where the ceiling stretches really tall and the sun bathes the flowers and trees in a golden-lit hue. Even more surprising is the view outside the greenhouse doors, overlooking all the city from above without any obstruction.

“Where—are we…?” Malik gasps, looking around in awe.

“A rooftop garden. My mum took me to one of these once,” Altaïr comments. “Stuck with me for a long time, even though I was only a kid. Can’t remember the specifics, but I _do_ know it was very easy to get lost here.”

“So when you said ‘hide somewhere,’ you really meant…”

“Um, too literal-minded?”

“I wonder,” says Malik, shaking his head. “You’re never one to stay still for long. Patience wasn’t your strong suit.”

“Patience is  _still not_  my strong suit,” Altaïr smiles wryly. “Now then, lemme show you around this place?” 

 

* * *

 

When Desmond wakes up, he feels a throbbing ache in his head that is only made worse by a continuous beeping sound coming from the other room.

Only _one_ device demands such attention. Desmond groans.

He has to wake Lucy to get up from the couch they were sleeping on, which leads to both of them dragging their sorry, hungover selves back to Altaïr’s bedroom where the Animus is. The reason for the device’s urgent beeping is a cruelly justified one.

_Warning: Area not available—desynchronization imminent!_

Altaïr and Malik are visible in the scene like usual, but the memory keeps distorting and going out of focus. The warning message on the screen only confirms that something went awry when Desmond and Lucy took their attention away from the Animus.

In the whiplash of events that follow, there are clothes to put back on, swears to throw around, and a mute button to toggle, but neither Desmond nor Lucy can think of a solution to prevent a sleeping patient from getting ejected by the Animus.

“Shit!" Desmond says again. “What did we do, what happened!?”

“You sure you don’t have a way to fix this!?” Lucy asks, equally frantic.

“I don’t know! If we had some way, we would’ve done that already but I don’t have a solution!” Desmond throws his hands in the air then clutches his head. “What if we can’t finish the procedure? Is Altaïr gonna wake up if he desyncs? If Doc finds out this procedure was botched, _I’m dead_ ,” he moans (with the verbal equivalent of banging one’s head onto the wall).

“Doc…” As if by magic, Lucy suddenly has a brilliant idea. “Warren!” she lights up. “Call Warren! He can probably fix this!”

The mention of their boss’s name is enough to summon fear in Desmond. “ _No_ ,” He shakes his head. “We’re gonna tell him outright we fucked up?”

“That’s not why I suggested it! Look, _Desmond_ ,” Lucy urges, “fixing the problem is more important than knowing we fucked up!”

Desmond exhales. “All right… I’ll go make the call.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Doc, uh, it’s Desmond. We have a problem.”

“ _Mr. Miles… it’s a very late hour to be calling me. What is it?_ ”

“The guy we’re working on, he’s about to desynchronize. He’s entering memories that aren’t on the map and I don’t know what I should do.”

There is a tone of surprise heard from the other end. “ _Mr. Miles, I don’t recall you being out on assignment tonight. Where are Mr. Auditore and Leonardo?_ ”

“They had to go home sick, so I filled in for them,” Desmond explains, but realizing how quickly it sounds like a fib, he tries to make it convincing. “Ezio came in at first! But he wasn’t feeling well, so he opted to go home and sleep instead of staying up. I had to use the bathroom and step away for a moment and suddenly—there’s this problem with the Animus. I don’t know how to fix it.” If he has anything going for him at this point, it’s that no one is going to stress over details at this late an hour, not even Dr. Vidic.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before the doctor relents. “ _All right, I’m coming over._ ” Desmond gives the apartment’s address and confirms the information before hanging up.

 

* * *

 

The ride home is one of deafening silence. Ezio tries to ask what’s wrong, or say something at least once every few minutes.

“Malik, please! Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to and I’m sorry if I did! Can we just—can we just talk this out?”

Malik doesn’t want to listen, and leans against the car window to pretend that he’s asleep.

All of Ezio’s pleas fall on unwilling ears. When they arrive back at the apartment, Malik wastes no time in getting out, fishing the keys from his pocket, and unlocking the front door, all with the quick strength of one arm.

He abruptly says, “Goodnight, Ezio,” before shutting the door behind him, leaving Ezio outside in the hazy dust of things unanswered and unsaid.

At this late at night, going back to Desmond isn’t an option anymore, but for the life of him, Ezio can’t understand why things had to end up this way.

 

* * *

 

Warren Vidic arrives when they least expect it, the sudden doorbell ring startling them out of their skins.

Desmond answers the door and promptly greets, “Doc, thank you so much-”

“We don’t have time to _talk_ , Mr. Miles,” Vidic interrupts, heading swiftly for the room with the Animus. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

It’s Lucy who answers from her spot at the device, “The patient is gonna desynchronize,” responding to the doctor like his assistant.

“Ms. Stillman,” The doctor recognizes with surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here as well.”

“Oh _Doctor!_ Um…” This takes Lucy off guard for a moment, as it didn’t occur to her that Dr. Vidic would only expect Desmond to be present. “I'm here because…I was interested in the Animus!" she reasons while gesturing to the screen. “I mean, all the help we can get is better than none, right?”

It must be passable enough, because Vidic sets down his briefcase and shifts his attention to the projected screen. “That’s strange,” he observes. “How did he get to an unrelated memory? You'd think the memory barriers would’ve kept him on track, but our patient seems to have bypassed them…”

Despite his puzzlement, the doctor inputs commands to reroute Altaïr back into the next relevant memory.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

Altaïr bursts out of the water gaping and gasping as if his life depended on it—which it did. He holds onto the ledge of the pool, water and sun all in his face, when Malik surfaces from below, looking plentifully soaked from his hair and body to the droplets off his face, neck, and shoulders.

“Hey, you did it!” Malik cheers, joining him at the ledge and putting a hand on Altaïr’s shoulder. “Your breathing and form were much better this time!”

“Yeah right, I still felt like I flailed around back there,” Altaïr rolls his eyes and offers a sheepish smile. “How _you_ do it is beyond me.”

“Never know when you’ll need it,” Malik encourages. “If you’re suddenly thrown into the water, then you can save yourself.”

“True,” Altaïr ponders, then looks down on second thought. “I…can’t deny that.”

“So!” he then hears, interrupting his concentration, because Malik is readying himself to dive again. “Race you again to the other side?”

Altaïr laughs and shakes his head. “May the best swimmer swim!” He proclaims, as the two of them splash back into the water.

Altaïr is not a perfect swimmer, and has no expectations of winning a race. It’s the usual affair of diving, windmilling, kicking, and gulping, rinse and repeat, and although it’s difficult to keep up this form the whole way, Altaïr still persists, if anything, to not let Malik down.

The splashing in his ears completely stops when he touches the edge at the other end of the pool. Altaïr surfaces in satisfying relief, while looking around for the fellow swimmer that should also be there.

“Malik? _Malik!_ ” He calls out, but there’s no one else.

On that windy, sunny afternoon, Altaïr seems to be the only one out in the pool.

 

* * *

 

( _Now loading…_ )

“ _What happened? How did we get taken out?!_ ”

“ _Looks like they found us. They know what they’re looking for, after all._ ”

“ _No, don’t say that! I’m not giving up, you hear me? I’m not letting them take you away from me!_ ”

“ _Well I’m flattered by your nobility, thank you. Incidentally, I have to ask—why did you want these ‘memory erasers’ in the first place?_ ”

“ _It’s a story I can’t explain. All I want now is for them to go away._ ”

“ _Do you have any way of telling them that?_ ”

“ _Not when I’m in a deep sleep, no… unless- unless there’s someone I can find to call this off!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Well, now that wasn’t much trouble to fix,” Vidic declares.

“Wonderful work, Doctor,” Lucy smiles.

“I suppose I can get going now, if your Animus is back to normal…”

“Uh, Doc?” Desmond calls, prompting the doctor to look again at the screen. “That might’ve been a one-time fluke. It’s happening again.”

 

* * *

 

( _Error: Area unavailable during current memory._ )

Altaïr thinks back to the clinic, and leads Malik through its hallways to find the room that Vidic was inside. The walls are now shrouded in fog, while people passing by are _faceless_ , but Altaïr keeps searching, keeps trying.

“Vidic!” He identifies when he locates the room. The doctor is still in the same place as before, examining the past version of Altaïr. “I want out, I want to call off the memory erasers!”

“Altaïr? You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not!?”

“Well, I mean—we’re only in your memory. _I’m_ only in your memory! I’m not capable of preventing this anymore than you can. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to…”

Altaïr tries to get the doctor’s attention, but the faceless forms of he and his patient speak for themselves.

 

* * *

 

“He's entered another memory, but why is he doing that?” Vidic asks. “And this is a memory already erased?”

“Maybe he's resisting the procedure…” Desmond slowly realizes.

“Well we can't have that happening,” The doctor grimaces. “We'll just have to erase the memories faster. Step on it, Mr. Miles.”

The technician's reaction is incredulous. “What do you want me to do, just—keep forcing him back into the sequence?”

“Do _not_ waste my time, Mr. Miles, you will do as I said _now!_ ”

Desmond inputs the commands while muttering a reluctant plea. “I’m sorry, Altaïr, but this is for your own good.” 

 

* * *

 

( _Now loading…_ )

“ _I shouldn’t have thought to erase you._ ”

“ _Another brilliant plan of yours?_ ”

“ _I only did it because you erased me first! So I had to follow suit._ ”

“ _…Probably for good reason, then._ ”

“ _I know, but…it’s complicated. There’s no ‘one reason’…_ ”

“ _Perhaps you can still keep your memories, and tell me about it in the morning?_ ”

“ _How do I do that?_ ”

“ _Well, why don’t we try again—hide in a different memory? Somewhere they can’t find us, and somewhere they wouldn’t dare look._ ”

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

They’re at a crosswalk over a wide street, but the dark of night doesn’t sit well with Altaïr, who thinks he could lose Malik at any second he’s not looking. It’s too long to wait for the sign to change to ‘walk,’ and there are no cars coming down the road.

“Let’s just go!” Altaïr says before stepping onto the crossing.

“Altaïr! You want to be an idiot!?” Malik screams, even though his only choice is to follow. “Just _run!_ MOVE IT!” he yells, forcing Altaïr to run faster so that they don’t get caught by a car aiming to make the green light. “Crossing a stop sign, what were you thinking!?”

“No time to explain!” Altaïr calls back. “But wait- was this when-? Shit, sorry.” He darts around quickly for a bit before locating a building in the distance. “Malik, follow me, I think there’s a way we can escape!”

He grips the hand holding his, as if to remember that Malik is still with him. Malik can’t be taken away from him anymore.

 

* * *

 

“Jump.”

“Are you kidding me? We’re on top of a _building!_ How in the hell can we-”

“There’s no time to explain, I just need you to jump with me!”

(After all, he can’t hurt himself in his own memories, can he?) By the time they make the leap, there’s nothing left to meet them of the ground.

 

* * *

 

( _Error: Area unavailable during current memory._ )

There’s a sound like a pile of leaves scattering, and suddenly Malik is in a haste to brush the leaves off his person and get up, because he doesn’t want Altaïr kicking him to the side too.

“Okay, where are we?” He asks.

“We’re in…the woods?” Altaïr answers, based off the orange-colored leaves and autumn trees they can see all around. “Well I figured, if this is my dream, I can go wherever I want, right?”

Malik is close to smacking him on the head. “Hide in a _memory_ , Altaïr! You can’t just go to some imaginary place, because if it doesn’t exist, they’ll spot you!”

“Well what kind of memory do we hide in?" Altaïr asks. "Seems to me that they’ll just keep finding it.”

“What kind of memory?” Malik repeats, and it gets him thinking and talking it out. “Well—the deeper we go, the harder it’ll be for them to try and find us, right? What are deeper memories? Things that you bury, because you want to forget them but can’t…”

Altaïr realizes, “Bad memories,” and Malik slowly nods.

“Fears. Shame. Failures.”

The thought troubles Altaïr just from hearing it. He looks at the ground for a moment, trying to understand the need for this option. “You think it’s gonna work?” He asks.

“Maybe,” Malik answers. “I’m in this if you are.”

Altaïr hears the calm in Malik’s voice, and closes his eyes. A memory that he never wants to bring up—he has one of those. He thinks of buried and concealed thoughts that he would tell no one, and imagines he and Malik will be taken there.

 

* * *

 

( _Initializing…_ )

“Have you come here with nothing but apologies and excuses again!?”

Altaïr hates this memory the most. All at once, he is a student again, yelled at in front of the whole class by Al Mualim as they watch in terrified silence.

All he remembers is the yelling. The old schoolmaster had a bellowing voice to match his temper and intimidation, and he would use it to slight anyone who disobeyed his rules or orders. Against Altaïr, though, his tirade had no bounds.

“How dare you come back after what you had done,” Al Mualim rages. “Do you _know_ what you did? _Do you!?_ ”

Altaïr tries to stay silent and look down, but the schoolmaster bellows, “ANSWER ME!”

“What does it matter to you!?” Altaïr shouts with all the energy he could muster. “You’ll just yell at me some more because _that’s all you do!_ ”

He’s met by a backhand across his face for his efforts, and as the room becomes thickly silent, Altaïr can only do so much to keep from breaking under absolute pain and hurt.

“Who do you think you ARE?” Al Mualim snaps. “Talking back to me with such _arrogance_ and defiance. You’ve done nothing but cause trouble to everyone here, and you haven’t even shown responsibility for the consequences your actions caused. So _who do you think you are!?_ To think you know better than me!”

There is no worse humiliation than being slaughtered by the lion while everyone watches. The sting of Altaïr’s cheek does nothing to curb the fury burning in his ears. Al Mualim only yells, _yells_ , _and yells_ , so much that the words never stop _searing_ and his tirade is never- _ending_ and Altaïr wishes it would all _stop_ because he _doesn’t want to hear it anymore!_

Out of the corner of his eye, a classmate who looks like Malik makes his way to the front with his hands clenched into fists. But before Malik can punch the old man for his verbal abuse, the shouting stops, and everything vanishes.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

“Hey,” Malik nudges, “look where we are.”

Altaïr doesn’t need to look up to feel rain pouring on his hoodless head. But there is Malik, equally drenched, standing next to him and looking at the sight of the streets in wonder—or is it _relief?_ He’s about to tell something to his beloved, when the beloved interrupts him first.

“Don’t worry. I remember you bet me that if it rained today, I’d owe you a kiss, so,” Malik leans in and perks his lips straight onto Altaïr’s, “here you go.”

“Oh _wow_. Thanks for that, um,” Altaïr stammers, before another thought pulls him into focus. “Why are we here? That memory…didn’t work, did it?”

Malik looks down as he responds, “To be honest, I’m glad we got out of there…”

“But we can’t stay here,” Altaïr interrupts. “I don’t wanna keep going into memories where I lose you.”

“Then you have to try again. Find another place we can hide!” Malik responds. “Maybe you have to go _deeper_ —what’s an even earlier memory you can think of?”

It’s the feeling of rain all around that makes him remember.

 

* * *

 

( _Initializing…_ )

He’s a kid on the diving board again, and he doesn’t wanna make the jump.

The world from the diving board looks so far up, and the ground below looks so far away. The other swimmer kids are cheering, “Go Altaïr!” and “You can do it, Altaïr!” but he shrinks even more. Everything about the diving board jump is a scary thought of ‘ _I don’t want to do this._ ’

In the end, Altaïr doesn’t jump out of bravery and willpower—he jumps because the coach blows a sharp whistle and it _startles_ him into taking the plunge. His heart leaps out of his chest when he falls and the impact of hitting the water _face first_  makes it all too difficult to see, to fight against the water that sinks you.

Getting his head out of water is only half the battle. But when Altaïr looks around, amidst cheering kids and coaches, there’s a boy he hasn’t seen before crouching down and offering both his arms. It’s a younger Malik, he realizes, if they had really met as children. This is still a better alternative than flailing in the deep end.

Malik simply looks at Altaïr and asks, “You okay?”

Altaïr grabs onto both arms in an instant. “I’m not doing that again!” He says upon getting out of the pool.

“You still made the leap. I’m proud of you, Altaïr.” Malik smiles and squeezes his friend’s hands in earnest. He leads with an eager “Let’s go” and Altaïr follows, as though he is drawn to Malik’s compassion instead of the snickers and giggles from the other children watching them hold hands.

In retrospect, Altaïr wonders what Malik would’ve been like if he’d been there in his childhood. He doesn’t notice the scenery collapsing, walls turning into a haze of white and blue, and their very selves disappearing from a moment that shouldn’t have been.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

“I feel lighthearted and dizzy.”

“Lighthearted? Yeah,” Altaïr teases, wildly sure there’s supposed to be another word. “I feel _lighthearted_  too.”

“Shut up!” Malik laughs, trying to shove him away, but it only makes Altaïr grab onto his arm tighter. They’ve resorted to leaning on each other in an attempt to get their bearings straight and find the way home.

They’re high off their excursion that somehow evolved from a night stroll into a full-on sprint through the neighborhood. While people are sleeping, Altaïr and Malik are stumbling, bumping into each other, and controlling their laughs into loud exhales. There is a type of peace at this late hour that is stage to their thrills of running and racing, and there couldn’t be a more exciting feeling. (Except for the relief when the throbbing in their heads would subside.)

But one by one, the streetlamps are snuffed out, then the lights of the remaining houses, and then Malik is stolen away from him. Altaïr realizes something was fixed yet again, but between the feeling of sweat and heavy breathing and the unfamiliar sweep of nighttime, he can’t muster the strength to try again anymore.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

Being pinned by Malik was a luxury—one he ought to indulge in more often.

On one hand, Altaïr had the comfort of lying back on the couch, while sifting through Malik’s hair as they explored mouths. On the other hand, Malik had the upper advantage ( _literally_ ), and the longer he continued pressing and rocking their bodies together, the sooner Altaïr’s soft comfort would be giving way to a more _hardening_ need.

Then the quiet is disrupted by the sound of the front door being opened—but Malik smirks and continues kissing the Altaïr pinned beneath them. The elder Al-Sayf did not have qualms in snogging his boyfriend for all the world to see.

“ _Okay,_  um…” Kadar says at a loss for words (while probably shuffling away from the living area like any awkward intruder). “I’ll be in my room,” he indicates like a very important fact. “You didn't see or hear me, so…carry on! Have a good night!”

Malik briefly lifts away to listen for the sounds of stumbling footsteps and a door that opens and closes shut. Once he’s assured of their peace, he turns back to Altaïr with that quirky smile.

“He learns well,” the King quips before resuming.

He never gets to. Malik is there one moment, and gone the next. Altaïr feels the weight pressing down on him lift away all at once, and it startles him hard out of his blissful concentration.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

There’s the cooling breeze of the sea, and the gulls cawing from above. The sun is bright and nigh unavoidable in their faces while the saltwater and sand are scents breathed in all around them.

What starts out as a stroll along the beach turns into a friendly romp across the surf and sand.

It’s Altaïr who starts it, quickly tapping Malik on the shoulder and saying “You’re it!” before running ahead as speedily as he can.

Immediately, Malik grins as he chases after that cheeky one. “You picked the wrong person to tag!” He crows. “Should’ve asked Kadar about when we used to play this as kids!”

“Let’s see you try and get me!” Altaïr cheers, sprinting and enjoying the thrill of running where Malik probably can’t catch up. But it’s because he’s looking ahead that Altaïr doesn’t expect the strong grip that latches onto him from behind, the sudden change in motion sending the two of them into a bit of a stagger, then a still embrace.

They stand in silence for a few moments, taking deep breaths as Altaïr savors the warmth of the arms around him, but then Malik leans in to his ear and whispers, “ _You’re it now._ ”

And with a tap on the shoulder, he is already off and running again.

When Altaïr reaches Malik, he leaps forward for a tackle that knocks them both onto the sand, and they laugh in hard breaths about what foolishly energetic _kids_  they must look like to anyone else.

There is still pain in Altaïr’s sides even as twists his head around and sees Malik is gone. So he remains, alone and lying out on the sand.

 

* * *

 

“Looks like you’re getting the hang of nabbing these memories, since there seems to be a pattern,” Vidic remarks. “If we keep an eye on the Animus _like you’re supposed to_ , then it shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

And Desmond stiffens, like he would every time his boss had such a scornful comment for him. Vidic was never one to be subtle, but even at this late an hour, he doesn’t need to hear it. “I’ll let _you_ take over then,” Desmond announces as he stands up. “I’m gonna head outside. Y’know, since everything seems to be under control for now.”

No reaction is earned from the doctor as he takes the seat in front of the computer. Lucy only gives a silent okay sign while staying next to him, and Desmond takes his cue to leave through the front door.

 

* * *

 

“You have to give him a break, Doctor,” Lucy says once Desmond is out of earshot. “He hasn’t had the easiest time either, having to watch his own _family_ get his memories erased.”

“He shouldn’t have gotten himself involved in the first place!” Warren counters, shaking his head. “What I simply don’t understand, Ms. Stillman, is why he wants to make things more difficult for himself.”

Lucy sighs. “Maybe in this case, he’s doing it for Altaïr’s sake than his own. He just wants to help because he cares.”

Warren doesn’t answer. His focus is back on the Animus and not the technician who was uncooperative with his orders. The room goes quiet once more, with the only sounds coming from the computer as he types away, his attention directed solely at the memories on display.

The mood without Desmond becomes different, as if the tension has disappeared for the doctor to continue work in peace, but also restricted, as if Lucy does not seem to know what to do next. She could go and look for Desmond, keep him company for a while, or she could take a break herself, and consider going home in favor of catching shut eye before morning.

Instead, she pays attention to Dr. Vidic as he goes through scenes from the Animus with a no-nonsense pace. She takes a seat at the small work table and comes up with a few observations of her own.

“I like watching how you work, Warren,” she confesses, finally using his name. “It’s so focused and straightforward.”

Warren pauses for a moment, as if to contemplate something, but he shakes his head and returns to typing on the keyboard. “It’s the only way things can get done quickly,” he comments.

Altaïr’s current memory shows him in a sea of people during a New Year’s celebration. As the countdown reaches midnight, he pulls Malik in for a kiss, set to the cheers, streamers, and balloons, while few look on with shock of a gleeful kind. When the erasure begins, the figure of Malik suddenly vanishes, as if he were swallowed up in the crowd. Altaïr starts looking around as the scene transitions, the Animus “ _rewinding memory to a more recent one._ ”

Lucy watches the scene with attention she hadn’t looked for in hours past. “What a thing to watch,” she says. “Seeing a memory forgotten so instantly like that…”

“Lacuna’s insight coupled with Abstergo’s instrument. There couldn’t have been a more perfect combination.”

“Will he really be all right?” Lucy asks of Altaïr. "I mean, will he get better after forgetting all these memories?”

To this, the doctor looks over at the young receptionist sitting not too far from him. It takes a notable pause before he responds. “I believe he will. Without grief burdening him, he can let go of his past to be at peace with his present and future.”

“That sounds about right,” she nods. “You know, I really admire the work you’ve done, Warren. It’s wonderful how much you’re doing for everyone.”

Warren sounds _floored_  when he hears this. “Well…I didn’t do this alone. I mean, you-”

His thought is interrupted by Lucy suddenly cupping his face and pressing her lips to his.

She recoils just as quickly, hands over her mouth while gasping in instant regret. “I’m sorry! I don’t know why I did that, I…” The still-shocked Lucy goes back to her chair, hoping the doctor isn’t looking at her in wide-eyed surprise. “I’ve admired you,” she admits in shame, “and liked you for a long time.”

“Oh, Lucy…” Warren laments. “You’re a great person, I know you are. It’s not that I don’t reciprocate, but- we can’t do this.”

It’s also the sight of Lucy burying her face in her hands that Warren _cannot_ not ignore. He comforts her with a hug as he whispers a stream of “shhhh” in her ear, and it leads into another kiss—one that’s softer, gentler, and _familiar_.

This time, Warren doesn’t resist.

 

* * *

 

The sound of a can crashing and spilling on the floor startles them out of their wits—and all of a sudden, Lucy and the doctor are breaking away and gasping from the sudden intrusion. Desmond stands there, frozen in place and unaware for a moment about the drink he’s spilled, before hurriedly turning around and leaving the apartment again.

The two go after him with an instant rising of dread.

“ _Desmond!_ ” Lucy calls, causing him to stop right as he was making a beeline for the elevator.

“For crying out loud,” Desmond mutters under his breath, before turning around and asking (in a voice that wouldn’t wake the neighbors), “What do you want? What the hell is going on?”

Vidic tries to speak with reason. “Desmond, please try to understand it was a mistake-”

“Oh sure, doing THAT while I wasn’t around counts as a mistake!”

“I didn’t come here for a specific reason except to work!” Vidic asserts, as best as he can without raising his voice too loudly.

“Yeah right you did!” The young man snarls while marching toward the doctor. “I’m saying it again, what the fuck is going on?”

“Desmond, I promise it’s not his fault! I started the kiss, and made a foolish mistake of forcing it on him!” Lucy pleads with fear quaking in her voice. “I- I don’t know what came over me to do it, but-”

Everything is too chaotic to even make sense. Desmond holds his hands up, interrupting with a series of “no”s to direct his attention to Vidic. “What was going on here that I had to miss out on?” When Vidic doesn’t answer, he challenges his boss again. “Don’t play dumb with me, Doc,” he blurts with rising boldness. “All I want now are _answers_.”

Lucy, however, remains left in the dark. “What are you talking about, Desmond?” She looks back and forth between the two. “Warren?”

Vidic pauses before speaking. “This wouldn’t be the first time, Mr. Miles.”

Desmond looks up and in a stern, but harshly quiet voice, he asks, “Why?”

If there is reluctance in the doctor’s answer, he doesn’t show it. “Ms. Stillman and I…we _were_ involved together,” he affirms, before turning to Lucy. “But you wanted the procedure—you had it done so you could…get past this.” (‘This’ meaning something else entirely.)

In the dead of night, nobody knows how to react as they should. Desmond looks at the ground, while Lucy feels shaken to the point she has to hold onto the guardrail to stay balanced. The reputation of silence precedes all reasonable thought.

But for the doctor, he has ways to excuse himself from the situation. “I should get back inside. There’s work to be finished before morning. We’ll discuss this another time.” He walks back to the apartment, leaving the other two outside in the hallway.

Lucy breaks the silence after what seems like a long minute. “My apologies,” she speaks. “You should get back to the Animus. I’ve just been taking up your time.”

“I’m not mad at you, Lucy,” Desmond pleads. “Let me give you a lift home at least?”

“I want to be alone right now,” she insists with exhaustion. “Just go, Desmond. Please.”

He doesn’t want to leave, not when his girlfriend needed support rather than solitude, but the way she spoke—the way she sounded defeated, unwilling to put up a fight or even an excuse for the truths they just heard—told him there was no use in trying to salvage the situation.

Desmond forces himself _not to think about it_  on the walk back to Altaïr’s apartment.

 

* * *

 

“I have nothing more to say, Mr. Miles. We have work to finish, so let’s focus on that.”

 

* * *

 

Lucy goes to the Abstergo building because she, too, needs answers. It’s late and locked up at night, but what does it matter—she has the master card key in hand and makes straight for Lacuna’s office.

She pulls and pours through boxes of folders until she finds a file marked with her name. There are papers, notes, and a CD identified by a session name and date recorded. Lucy puts the disc in an audio player and listens for its contents.

“ _What did I like about you?_ ” Lucy’s voice begins, and it surprises her to hear it. “ _From the very start, I had to thank you for saving me. When you offered me the job with Abstergo, I was down on my luck. I’d been facing rejection after rejection, even though I was in desperate need of work, or someplace that would take me in. Receiving your letter, hearing the interest you had in my research and how you thought I had promise…it meant a lot to me. It gave me hope. That you believed in me meant so much! Working on the Animus Project gave me a place to test my skills and learn new things. I didn’t expect to thrive this far…_

“ _And true enough, we accomplished a lot together…when we were transferred to help Lacuna, I was glad to spend more time with you. You don’t know how happy it made me… and I could never repay my gratitude to you-_ ” Lucy’s voice in the recording breaks. “ _I’m sorry, Warren… I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s gonna happen after this!_ ”

There is a silence as Lucy-in-the-recording tries to hold back her sobs, followed by a soft “shhhh” from Warren-in-the-recording (where she can imagine him reaching out and caressing her cheek, and the thought that he _was_  capable of that comfort and assurance). It surprises her because she doesn’t recall saying these words; it surprises her at all that this could’ve been a part of her life—only it can’t be.

The doctor’s response is a reluctant one. “ _We agreed, it was for the best. It’s going to be all right, Lucy._ ”

Unexplainably, Lucy succumbs and bursts into tears.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

It couldn’t be explained how quickly their “relationship” had come to this, but Altaïr started understanding why he always came around to see Malik again. Malik was interesting. Malik left an impression. Perhaps he _did_ want to know this man some more, and get acquainted with him just because he intrigued him so.

In any case, this yearning interest finds Altaïr standing outside an apartment door, to pick up the resident who lives there for the first time. He rings the doorbell and prepares his most casual ‘hands-in-pockets-with-a-sly-hooded-smile’ posture, but the person who answers the door is not who he expects.

“Um, hello, can I help you with something…?”

“Yeah, I’m actually looking for-”

“ _Kadar!_ ” a voice calls out from further in. That voice soon appears as a person running over to the entryway. “I said I was gonna get the door- oh.”

Greeted by the sight of his brother and his boyfriend, Malik realizes that this is a combination that has yet to join forces of the nefarious kind.

“Well,” he looks dumbfounded. “Kadar, this is Altaïr, the guy I met at the beach. Altaïr, this is my younger brother, Kadar.”

Kadar gives a grin to go with his handshake. “Pleased to meet you, Altaïr. Technically, I’m the _handsomer_ sibling, but you don’t have to be pissed.” It earns him a whack from the elder Al-Sayf, but the boy just laughs it off and turns back to the new guy.

“I don’t think I’ll have to be, your brother’s definitely a keeper,” Altaïr winks.

“Oh _SNAP!_ ” Malik crows, as if on instinct for every successful punchline used on his brother.

“WAIT! Did you even _hear_  what he said?!” Kadar shrieks, interrupting his brother and pointing at Altaïr. “He called you a _keeper!_ ” And suddenly Malik is shut up, because he doesn’t know whether to feel shocked, appalled, or flattered. Kadar then turns back to this charismatic stranger. “Look. My brother does not just- bring home strangers to tell me how wonderful he is on a regular basis. He’s never done that.” (“Hey!” says Malik.) “So for you to be here—smooth-talking your way up my doorstep?—means there’s _something_  you’re not telling me. What gives?”

Intrigued, Malik stays back to witness the conversation unfold.

Altaïr laughs with amusement at the young boy’s reaction. “I mean it, Kadar, believe me. I’ve only known Malik for a little while, but…I like him. I think he’s a great guy.”

Kadar looks at Altaïr with a steely, but brave grin. “My brother’s _more_ than a great guy, I’ll have you know. He’s a terrible pain in the ass,” he points to the person behind him, “and I have the pleasure of speaking from experience. But if you do wrong by him—I won’t forgive you.” Kadar then holds out his right hand. “Do you swear by that?”

Malik looks at his younger brother in awe. Altaïr smiles, and returns Kadar’s firm handshake.

“I promise,” he says, but as he looks Kadar in the eyes, a sudden feeling compels him to give the boy a hug. “I’m sorry, Kadar. I’m so sorry,” he confesses, burying his words into the boy’s shoulder. Kadar (in this memory) doesn’t even know why, but Altaïr still hugs him tighter, and doesn’t let go until Kadar and Malik fade out of sight.

 

* * *

 

( _Rewinding memory to a more recent one_ )

So it’s come down to this. One last memory before Malik is erased forever.

Altaïr would recognize the beach, more than anything, as the place where they first met.

He remembers sitting out on the front porch, watching the rest of the summergoers mingle and frolic about. There was a party Desmond and Maria dragged him along for, and he didn’t want to do anything there because he was _lonely_  and didn’t like talking to people (a concept that eludes him now, thinking back on it all).

There is a group of friends chattering within earshot, and then an unexpected grab pulls him up by the shoulders and makes him walk.

“Hey there,” says a familiar voice (but at the time, he wasn’t bothered to see who it was). “Altaïr, right? Thought you could enjoy the sunshine and fresh air while you’re out here.”

“No thank you,” Altaïr declines, though he continues to walk in the rhythm set by this person. “I don’t usually visit the beach.”

“So you say. But what a waste, don’t you think?” (He didn’t notice the sound of their footsteps change from soft sand to a hard click-clack on the wooden surface of the pier.) “What good is watching and waiting for time to pass by? Live a little!”

Altaïr remembers what it was like getting pushed into the water. It was a combination of getting a gut punch, a literal sinking of his heart, and the living daylights scared out of him all at once. There had been worse shocks in his life, for sure, but the timing of hearing that speech, followed by the splash in the water—and a sudden crowd of victorious cheering—occurred in such quick succession that really, Altaïr would’ve beaten himself up over how he didn’t see that prank coming.

Nothing is more graceful than struggling in the water while wearing a thick hooded jacket, but nothing is less honorable either in only getting rescued by the hand-and-arm that pulls him up. Altaïr’s clumsiness has him grabbing onto his rescuer with both arms, however.

It was here that he saw the face of his ‘prankster’ for the first time.

“You okay?” Malik asks, as he holds onto Altaïr’s arms from his perch on the pier. Here was Malik in his innocence, Malik who only wanted earnest fun, Malik who still asked after his safety, and Malik who wasn’t the usual heartless prankster. Altaïr remembers, remembers, _remembers_ , and even though he was a soaked sore loser when he devised his way of saving face, all he can feel now is a surge of sudden happiness welling up from his heart and through his words.

“I remember,” Altaïr says with a bitter smile that’s both sweet with memory and salty from the water. “I remember this part, exactly as it all happened.”

Malik offers a quick smile back and nods, “Me too,” before Altaïr tugs him forward and he’s alarmed to be caught off guard all just the same.

(Pulling Malik into the water was only the _start_ of a whole mess of things they’d end up in.)

 

* * *

 

Maria had literally hung them out the front porch to dry, if her definition of ‘hung’ meant ordering them to shower and change clothes, then grounding them from having dinner inside the house until they thought about what they did. Between one who complained he was only doing a dare and it wasn’t his fault, and one who couldn’t care about this beach outing anymore, Maria Thorpe had a good point in doing what she did, and it was ultimately one of her better and longer-lasting decisions yet.

But in the meantime, Altaïr solidly declares, “I’m never coming back to the beach again.”

Malik scoffs and responds, “Me neither.” But it was clear one of them would have to do most of the talking. “Well, it was a pleasure pushing you into the water, Altaïr, even if you hate me for the rest of your life,” He holds out his hand in an attempt to make peace. “I’m Malik.”

“Hi, Malik,” Altaïr grumbles as he returns the handshake.

It must be the absolute sarcasm with which Altaïr greets him that makes Malik stop and wonder, “What humble beginnings, huh?”

“It shouldn’t have had to end like this,” Altaïr confesses. “I just wish we had another go round.”

“Yeah,” Malik snorts. (Even the Malik of his mind does not pull any punches or soft comforts.) “If only we could. But I don’t suppose that is going to happen.”

Malik—the King of the Sword, so spoke his name—was always so precise with his words, knowing how to make them strike so proficiently. Of this, it is no different, and perhaps Altaïr finally understands (here, in reconciling the thoughts that scramble through his head) that there is no consolation in moping over his regrets. He looks down and sighs in agreement.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s all gonna go away soon…so what should we do now?”

“What else _can_  we do?” Malik gazes at him with a wistful smile. “Just enjoy it.”

 

* * *

 

All the things Altaïr first learned about Malik were from that conversation on the steps of the beach house. Granted, their egos were still wounded from how they got off on the wrong foot, but it probably helped that neither he nor Malik was unafraid to speak his mind. Altaïr rarely talked with friends, much less keep contact with them, but Malik was certainly a change of pace, and one he had to change his tempo to keep up with.

After dinner—when Maria finally let them inside and the sun began to set—Malik’s idea was to get away from the crowd, walk along the surf, and talk to Altaïr some more. Altaïr never took him up on that offer because “it was getting late,” he said.

“Wait,” Malik observes as he looks outside the house. “That was the end? What happened after you left?” He asks this like a young kid wanting to know the rest of the story.

Altaïr remembers how at this point, he had left Malik’s company. Of course Malik would’ve been looking for him still. “I had to go,” he says as he exits the house. “It was almost nighttime, and…Desmond and Maria were already packing up for the ride home. I didn’t want to be left out so late.”

“You left without a word,” Malik reflects, walking down the steps and joining Altaïr outside. “I almost wondered if I gave you _that bad_ of an impression, and you were just trying not to tell me!”

“You didn’t!” Altaïr retorts (on instinct, because he always had a habit of doing that). “I thought you did, but—it was the total opposite. You were such an interesting person, I knew I wanted to see you again! I had to, so I did…right?”

“You did,” Malik affirms, with a fond smile. “So what would it be like if you didn’t leave this time?”

“What?”

“Come and make up a goodbye. We can pretend we had one—even if it never existed.”

And Altaïr agrees, it’s the smartest idea he’s heard yet.

“For what it was, Malik…I’m grateful that it all happened. I’m glad I got to know you.”

“I am too,” Malik agrees, and finally, he relents. “You’ll come back here, won’t you? Come back to this place, so that I can see you again.”

Altaïr looks at him with such confusion. “ _How?_ ”

“You will! Remember this place, try to remember _me_. I _will_ see you again, okay?” Malik says, and Malik Al-Sayf never says things with half-hearted (or half-assed) intent.

“Okay,” Altaïr nods, and as he moves in to kiss him, Malik returns the favor. He wants to end this last memory on his own terms.

“Goodbye, Altaïr.”

“I love you, Malik.”

The tide draws in closer and the waves crash louder when Malik leans in and whispers his last words—and for a brief moment, Altaïr believes he’s reached a quiet moment of peace.

“ _Meet me here, Altaïr… I_ know _that I’ll see you again…_ ”

 

* * *

 

“ _Did you have fun playing dunk tank with your friend?_ ” Maria asks.

“ _I doubt he’s really gonna be ‘my friend’,_ ” he grimaces, “ _but we’ll see._ ”

“ _You had a good time in the end,_ ” Desmond says from the wheel.“ _I’m glad._ ”

From the backseat of the car, Altaïr watches the world replay before his eyes. Memories and moments play in spades, fleeting pictures make their curtain call, and his dreaming comes to an end when the last memory of Malik Al-Sayf is going, going, _gone_.

 

* * *

 

The procedure is (finally, finally) complete, signaled by Dr. Vidic shutting the down the computer with the relief of "another job done." He and Desmond are rewarded for their thankless efforts by the sunlight of seven-in-the-morning shining in, congratulating them for staying up the whole night.

Immediately, a number of things have to be done for packing and cleaning up. The doctor puts away the Animus equipment to take down to the van, while the technician throws away their clutter to take down to the trash. It's a sudden, fast chore to leave no trace behind, but Altaïr is bound to wake up any second, and Lacuna's presence must remain nonexistent.

Once all is done, Desmond leaves the apartment and meets Vidic outside by the van.

“I'm gonna take the van back,” is all Desmond can say as he gets into the driver's seat.

“Thank you, Desmond— _Mr. Miles,_ ” The doctor abruptly corrects, with weary nuisance. “Look, what’s done here is done… but we should talk after this.”

“You can save it. I don’t wanna hear anything else that’ll make me regret doing this.”

 

* * *

 

Upon bringing the van back to Abstergo, Desmond comes across Lucy, carrying a box of things to the trunk of her car.

“Came down to that, huh,” He comments, startling her with his appearance. “I wouldn’t have stayed either if I knew that happened to me.”

“Swear to me,” Lucy starts, “you didn’t know anything about this?”

“I didn’t! I swear,” Desmond answers immediately. “Really, I only found out at the same time as you did.”

Lucy only looks at him, incredulous and in disbelief.

“Well… maybe I did suspect something. When you were telling me the story of how you got here?” Desmond brings up, and Lucy seems to recall. “How you got to Abstergo? You really spoke of the doc with high regard, like you were more than just grateful. I’d…figure that you were close, from how often you two worked together.”

“Yeah, I realized as much.”

“I might’ve had thoughts, but- obviously, I couldn’t think any further about them…” Desmond looks down. “I’m sorry, this is all really uncomfortable now.”

Awkward silence rears its head again.

“So where are you gonna go from here?” he asks.

“Who knows?” she responds. “I can’t say. I need time to figure this all out.”

“I like you,” he blurts out. “I _really_  like you, Lucy Stillman. And I still do.” As if it will fix everything.

“Me too, Desmond…and I’m sorry.”

With nothing left to say between them, Lucy shuts her trunk and drives her car away.

 

* * *

 

When Altaïr wakes up the next morning, he can barely remember what he did before going to sleep.He spends a good while staring at the ceiling while strange questions are asked in his head.  _What is he doing here? What was he doing before he went to sleep last night?_

_Why did he even go to sleep last night?_

For a moment, he can’t seem to remember himself or who he is. Somehow, he gets his footing and moves, like autopilot, to get on with his day.

There seems to be plans he’d forgotten, because one moment Altaïr is standing out on the platform, the next he is rushing over to catch the train bound for seaside. It is neither a gut feeling or a logical decision that compelled him, but a stronger, lingering, _urgent_ reminder that he must meet someone today. Who that someone is, though, remains uncertain. He can’t seem to remember.

 

* * *

 

There is no one familiar out there at the beach—heck, hardly anyone is out, not if they want to freeze their butts off in weather like this—but after spending what seems like a long, awkward episode skipping rocks, _trying_ to watch the waves, and having a fit over why he agreed to endure such weather, Altaïr sees there is another.

‘Another’ walks closely by the waves, wearing a hood up as cover from the wind and looking on in similar quiet. As the stranger moves closer into view, Altaïr sees the dark grey of a jacket and a right arm shoved into a pocket, but also the sleeve of the left arm pinned up and out of the way.

Altaïr looks down. He doesn’t want to be caught staring.

 

* * *

 

He encounters the one-armed stranger again in the nearby cafe, and then again on the train platform.

They end up in the same train car, even if they didn’t intend to. Being the only two people within distance or earshot for the ride home, Altaïr decides the ice needs to be broken.

“Hi there!” He calls out, hopefully sounding friendly.

He is met with surprise, but acknowledgment nonetheless. “Hi.”

“I’m Altaïr,” he introduces, going to the seat in front and offering his hand.

The man hesitates, but returns the gesture knowing he can shake with the proper hand. “Malik.”

“Hi, Malik,” Altaïr greets, returning the handshake. It is then that Malik sees the splint wrapped around Altaïr’s left forearm.

“Your arm,” He notices. “Did you also…?”

“Um, yes,” Altaïr says, showing his left arm briefly before lowering it behind the seat. “It’s mainly my wrist that was broken, but it’s getting better now.”

“I see. I’m glad it’s going well for you.”

“Thanks. I…also want the same for you. Wishing you well.”

There is a sudden pause with no immediate response, and Altaïr looks down in fear that he might’ve said something wrong. But then he hears a soft reply.

“ _Thanks._ ”

He looks up again to see Malik, with a comforted smile and sincere nod.

 

* * *

 

They would’ve continued to talk, if not for the arrival of more passengers filling up the seats for the rest of the trip home. After arriving at the station, Altaïr loses Malik in the sea of people and thinks that is the end of that.

It’s almost nightfall by the time the train arrives back in the city. Just as Altaïr is just about to begin the drive home, though, he notices Malik walking out on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” Altaïr calls out, getting the man’s attention. “I can give you a lift home.”

“Really?” Malik asks, peering inside to see Altaïr’s hands on the wheel in spite of the splint. “You mean you can?”

Altaïr says with a smirk, “Hasn’t stopped me. Not for long, at least.” He gestures as he lifts his right hand from the wheel. “So what do you say?”

“Very well,” Malik says as he enters the car from the passenger seat.

“The first ride is free of charge,” Altaïr continues in jest. “Where to, good sir?”

Malik leans back and laughs, “Can you get me home? Just go where I’ll tell you.”

 

* * *

 

Altaïr follows the directions to Malik’s apartment and Malik gets home without any problems. This would be the time for them to part ways—only Malik doesn’t think so.

The next thing Altaïr knows, Malik invites him to come in, if just for a while, and that is how Altaïr finds himself sitting on the living room couch while Malik fixes their drinks.

“You get water,” Malik announces as he sets a glass on the counter, “because you’re still gonna be driving home.”

“Thanks,” Altaïr chuckles as he takes the drink. “I suppose I can loosen up with this.”

“I’m not really a party host, truth be told,” Malik confesses, joining his companion on the couch with his own drink. “I wouldn’t know where to start, or who to invite.”

“Well, I met you for a start,” Altaïr quips. “That makes one?”

That gets a sudden laugh out of his host. “Already eager to make friends, huh?”

Altaïr shakes his head. “To be honest, I’m not an expert in being social. Can’t keep a conversation to save my life. But,” he smiles, “I guess this is a step in the right direction?”

Malik nods back. “We all gotta start somewhere.”

“Say, I’m not intruding on anything, am I?” Altaïr asks as he looks around. “I mean, if you’re expecting someone else to come home…”

“No, it’s just me living here,” Malik clarifies.

“It’s a lot of living space for one person…” Altaïr observes.

Malik takes a moment of silence before responding, “My brother also lived here.”

Altaïr stops. “Oh.” (Nothing more needs to be said after seeing Malik’s sole arm.)

“We were in an accident,” Malik explains. “I can’t even remember why or how it happened.” Altaïr looks down, out of (respect or solitude or just) an inability to respond appropriately, but Malik shrugs his shoulders and answers, “I’ve been getting by. Somehow. Not easy when you feel like shit everyday.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s- not your fault, but at least,” Malik locks eyes again with Altaïr. “I met you today,” he echoes, “and that’s…something different, something new?”

“Yeah…” Altaïr finds himself nodding, agreeing that something for once is right with the world. Something new, indeed.

He goes home that night with Malik’s phone number, and it’s the happiest he’s felt in a long time.

 

* * *

 

It’s the night after next and already, Altaïr gets a text from Malik asking if they can meet up at the park.

When they meet, Malik is quick to recognize Altaïr’s hoodie, just as Altaïr recognizes the pinned-up sleeve of Malik’s jacket. Though there’s nothing to be hidden about a missing arm, as Malik proceeds to ask, “Something secret about your hair, hooded one?”

Altaïr gets a laugh out of the nickname. “You could say it’s my signature look,” he teases with a grin. “Have I caught your attention?”

“Maybe,” Malik smirks. “No seriously, what’s under the hood? Bad hair day? Secret identity?”

“Pfft, if you think I’m embarrassed to take off my hood, it’s nothing like that,” Altaïr says, looking around and pretending to be “completely unaffected” by that statement.

Malik only gets _more_ ideas. “If I challenged you to a race, would you let down your hood?”

Altaïr scoffs, but in a playful way. “One-upping me, are we? Very well, Malik. You win, I’ll take off my hood.”

Malik looks around for their route. “One lap around the perimeter…and the lamppost is our finish. Ready?”

As they get into starting position, Altaïr holds up three fingers in a silent countdown—and it’s off they go.

 

* * *

 

In the end, running around the perimeter is such an excruciating feat that they’re hardly able to calm down afterwards. Malik has to hold onto Altaïr’s shoulder for balance, while Altaïr tries to steady them both so that they don’t fall out of dizziness.

“Who won?” Altaïr asks in short spurts of breath.

“I did,” Malik says matter-of-factly as he gestures with his head. “I reached the lamppost first.” It’s flimsy, silly reasoning that Altaïr almost wants to give another witty retort to, but in the midst of his adrenaline-filled high—a rush of feelings that range from (wanting to laugh but having no energy) to (wanting to take his hood off anyway because of the sweltering exhaustion from his face and cheeks)—he doesn’t feel the need to object anymore.

“I must’ve been blindsided by how you beat me,” Altaïr admits, “or else I would’ve seen that lamppost. All right, Malik,” he relents as he frees himself from his companion’s shoulder hug. “You won the race, so—here’s your reward.”

With an untheatrical flair, Altaïr pulls off his hood and crudely swipes at his hair in the hopes that it’s not too messy. Malik takes in the sight for the first time and likes what he sees—if his smile is anything to go by.

“You look better without your hood,” he decides. “And with a view like that, I think I could get used to it.”

It surprises Altaïr to hear that comment, that all he can say is, “Thank you.”

“That was a good race,” Malik concludes. “After all that running, I’m ready to call it a night.”

“My place is nearby,” Altaïr offers, and Malik accepts.

They get there by walking (neither had a car at present), an effort still so tiresome that as soon as Altaïr unlocks the door, he directs Malik and himself to the bed, and they are out in seconds after touching down on the goodness of pillows.

 

* * *

 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Malik hears the person coo beside him, and he nearly jolts when he sees that person in bed with him.

“Whoops! Might’ve surprised you there!” Altaïr laughs, and Malik realizes that this is the golden-eyed, messy-haired man he spent all yesterday with. “You’re at my place, remember?” he explains. “We were so tired last night, that we just conked out after hitting the same bed. Nothing else, I promise.”

Malik rolls his eyes as he remembers. That neither of them are awkwardly surprised to be bedmates is even something to be marveled at. “So I guess we’re at this stage of the relationship now?” he drawls.

“Probably,” Altaïr answers with a pleasant grin to match. “I should get you home—you practically spent the whole night with me.”

“I still wanna spend time with you,” Malik says. “Just- lemme get my stuff at my place, and then we can go somewhere.”

The look on Altaïr’s face as he accepts this is a worthwhile sight. “I like that… Let’s do that.”

And Malik can’t help but smile in return. It’s the first morning in a while where he’s slept so peacefully.

 

* * *

 

They stop by Malik’s place first so he can gather his things. Altaïr is content to wait in the car, but then he’s caught unawares by an unfamiliar person—a young man with a ponytail—knocking on his window.

Staying put, Altaïr lowers the window and asks, “Yes?”

He looks confused to see Altaïr in the car. “Can I help you with something?” He says in a miffed tone.

“Um, what do you mean?”

“What are you _doing_ here?” The stranger asks bluntly, as if common sense dictates Altaïr should know him from somewhere.

“I’m…waiting for someone?” Altaïr returns in the same tone asked to him. “I’m not really sure what you’re asking.”

The stranger seems to back off. “Oh. Then… I’ll be going,” he says before walking away in a hurry.

At that point, Malik emerges from the front door with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He reenters through the passenger seat and gives a cheerful “Off we go!” as Altaïr starts the car to drive them off.

While going through the things in his backpack, mail among them, Malik brings out a tall envelope he doesn’t seem to expect.

“Huh, never heard of this ‘Lacuna, Inc.’ before,” He says of the label. Enclosed is a blank disc, accompanied by a letter. “To all patients of Dr. Warren Vidic,” he reads aloud. “My name is Lucy Stillman. We’ve met, but you don’t remember me. I worked for a company you hired to have part of your memory erased. I’ve realized the mistake in authorizing this process, and so to correct it, I am sending everyone’s files back to them.”

In equal parts confused but curious, Malik plays the disc from the car’s CD player.

“ _My name is Malik Al-Sayf, and I want to erase Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad. I almost don’t know where to start with that ungrateful bastard. Our relationship snowballed to the point that my brother and I suffered from a car wreck we got into._ ”

“What is this?” Altaïr asks (as Malik quickly says, “I don’t know”). “I don’t remember this happening.”

“ _He’s nothing more than an arrogant asshole whose selfishness nearly cost me my life!_   _If he had paid attention and LOOKED where we were going, we wouldn’t have gotten hit, and maybe, maybe my brother would still be alive._ ”

Altaïr’s reaction is a knee-jerk “What the fuck!?” but one look at the splint on his wrist (in front of him, as he holds onto the wheel) and already, he makes the realization. “We were in the same accident.”

“So the reason I lost my arm was because of _you!?_ ” Malik accuses with sinking anguish.

Altaïr tries his best to stay focused on the road. “I didn’t know. I swear, I don’t know where this is coming from!”

“ _But that’s not all, is it? He only gets a broken arm from sitting at the wheel, but he walks away just fine, doesn’t he? That monster shouldn’t deserve to live! It should be his life for Kadar’s! My only brother is gone, and he’s not coming back anymore because of Altaïr!_ ”

Altaïr stops the car in the middle of the street, until only the voice of Malik-lambasting-him-in-the-recording rings louder in both their ears.

The sight of the splint on his wrist becomes more and more apparent. “I didn’t know you thought so nicely of me,” he mutters.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to say that,” The person next to him retorts.

Altaïr fixes his attention solely on the steering wheel. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Why don’t _you_ tell me,” Malik immediately snaps. “Is this true?”

“And what can I do if it is? I don’t know anymore about this than you do.”

“ _I don’t even think that he cares about what he has done. I took him for granted. I should’ve_ never _befriended him. Look where that got me-_ ”

Altaïr ejects the disc and tosses it back to Malik. He reaches over to open the passenger side door and that is all he has to say.

Taking the hint, Malik grabs his things and gets out of the car, slamming the door with _frustrated strength_ before storming back to his apartment.

 

* * *

 

“Ezio, get out of here.”

“Malik, what’s wrong-”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“What’s going on with you!?”

“Just _leave me alone!_ ”

 

* * *

 

It was easy enough to crumple into a broken mess after making it through the front door. For the first time in weeks, Malik wept for everything wrong with his life—the loss of his arm, the loss of Kadar, the shock of being betrayed by a person he seemingly just met—and all the wounds he thought he could forget were ripped out and reopened and brought back to bleed. But even tears could not be limitless.

Malik hates the feeling of _wrongness_ burning in his mind over everything he just learned—but what he hates even more is the silence that sets after exhausting all his supply of weeping. There’s nothing left to be angry for, because when all is said and done, nothing can change what cannot be brought back. The only thing he can change is what happens in the present.

His answer seems to be supported. By some unexpected miracle, Malik finds he has Altaïr’s address—under a locked section of notes on his phone that he still knew the passcode to.

 

* * *

 

Malik drives to Altaïr’s residence, thankful that the trip is short and not so strenuous on his arm. He takes the elevator up to the specific floor and wanders until he’s located the intended apartment number.

He raps lightly on the door, calling in a curt voice, “Altaïr, it’s me.”

No way Altaïr would answer the door for him, he thinks, until he hears the deadbolt unlock from inside.

Malik enters the apartment and takes in the sight of a mess—scattered papers, turned up boxes, and the sound of spoken audio heard from further in. The audio is Altaïr’s voice, a recording speaking sullen comments about a person Malik presumes is himself.

“ _We were happy. We were in love. We were closer friends unlike any other, but that all had to change, didn’t it? Once we started arguing, it never stopped, never went away…_ ”

Altaïr himself sits on the floor against the wall, hood covering his eyes. He doesn’t look up when he says, “Leave me alone.”

“No,” Malik shakes his head. “I came here to see you.”

“What good is seeing me after what I did to you?”

“It’s more than that, Altaïr, I-” The continuation of Malik’s thought is interrupted by what he hears from the stereo.

“ _What is it about Malik that makes him so irritating? He’s so hard to please, because really, I don’t know what’s supposed to make him happy. He’s like this elite perfectionist who only wants things his way and no one else’s._ ”

“I’m not like that,” Malik reacts with sudden shock.

“I would never- you know what, I should just turn it off,” Altaïr says as he gets up.

“No, it’s okay,” Malik replies. “You had to hear mine, it’s only fair I hear yours.”

They stand where they are, looking down in awkward silence as the broadcast of Altaïr’s past words continues.

“ _We fought over everything, and the worst was knowing how true it was, that we stopped getting along. I hated it. I hated feeling that I was always the one making mistakes, always fucking up and always being wrong._ _So I fought back with his own medicine. I’m not some ‘novice’ like he thinks I am…_ ”

“I don’t know why you’d call me that…” Altaïr says in case Malik takes offense.

Malik only shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even know what you’d be a novice in.”

Altaïr moves his hood downward until it covers his eyes. “All of this is messed up.”

“I guess…” Malik offers as consolation, “we both had a past we wanted to forget.” Even as he admits it, it’s a truth neither he nor Altaïr can fully grasp.

“ _What I’m trying to say is…is Malik even capable of having a kind bone in his body? Because I’m starting to think he doesn’t have any. He’s grumpy and conceited, and he’s only happy when_ _he gets what he wants._ ”

Forgotten past or not, the words Malik hears are still hurtful and make him uncomfortable the longer he stays to listen. “I should go,” he says as he makes for the door.

Altaïr goes after him. “Malik, wait-”

“I- don’t really see a point in being here now,” The one-armed man hesitates. “I thought it was a good idea at first, coming here to make amends, but…it’s probably for the better this way.”

Altaïr looks at him stunned, unable to even respond.

“Bye, Altaïr. It was nice meeting you and all.”

“Yeah, I had a good time with you, too…” The hooded man nods. “Thanks.”

“ _Already it’s making me wonder, did I really love him? Did he ever have a reason to love me? If we ended up hating each other and it was the right way all along, I would’ve believed that. Only, it just didn’t have to hurt. It didn’t have to hurt so fucking much._ ”

It’s only after Malik disappears around the corner that Altaïr realizes what he was going to say.

Running out into the hallway, he desperately calls out, “Malik! Wait!” and catches his attention.

Malik turns around with an annoyed expression. “What now?”

After an uncomfortable silence, Altaïr forces the words to tumble out. “I’ve been a fool,” he confesses. “All this time, I never said I was sorry. You lost everything important in your life because of me—your arm, your brother Kadar, and now your memories. You had every right to be angry at me.”

Malik looks him in the eyes with a focused gaze, and doesn’t look away once. “After what you did, to me and my brother, I’m not sure I should even forgive you.”

“I _know_ I can’t be forgiven for what I’ve done,” Altaïr resolves. “I’ll have to spend my life—the rest of it—understanding that.”

“But you’re not…” And at this, Malik has to take a deep breath before continuing. “You’re not the same person who I heard in that recording. I don’t even remember who he was anymore—so you should have nothing to apologize for.”

“Malik…” Altaïr gasps. The sudden intake of breath feels like a great weight has been removed at the same time.

“Perhaps, this is our clean slate. We can’t get our memories back, but at least—we’re free from the past that burdened us.”

“So stay,” Altaïr suddenly says, before Malik gives him an incredulous look. “What’s wrong with wanting you to stay?”

“It could easily go down the same road again.”

“I doubt it can, not after what happened to us.”

Malik says, “You’re not gonna like everything about me.”

Altaïr puts his hands up. “I can’t see anything that I _don’t_  like about you!”

“But you will!” Malik insists. “You’ll find out I’m not an amazing person, and maybe you’ll hold it against me. You’ll hate me, then I’ll end up hating you back, and that’s just what happens with me, because I was never great at making friends. I’m sorry.”

Malik doesn’t expect Altaïr to take his (only remaining) right hand into his (broken, still mending) left one. Together with his own right hand, Altaïr brings Malik’s hand to his hood until it is clutching the fabric.

Altaïr’s voice wavers, but he does not avert Malik’s gaze when he answers, “Okay.”

Taking the silent cue for permission, Malik lets down the hood, then pulls back to look at Altaïr before him. Finding the word on his lips makes Malik want to say it in turn. “Okay.”

They both break out into smiles that become laughters of choked relief. _They’ll be okay._

**Author's Note:**

> The title and main theme of this story were inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZMV8Pg-iHM).
> 
> Altaïr and Malik's story will be continued. Thank you for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [#illseeyouagain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022916) by [epherians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epherians/pseuds/epherians)




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